


Baby, Seasons Change but People don't

by LyricalCord



Series: Baby, Seasons Change but People Don't [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5551670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricalCord/pseuds/LyricalCord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>INCOMPLETE, CURRENTLY REWRITING!!!<br/>David Webster, an eighteen year old and college bound freshman, unearths his grandfather's journals about the Second World War. He learns his grandfather's darkest secret and suddenly, suddenly he remembers it all. Remembers the war and Joe and the way he truly felt about what was going on overseas. Carwood Lipton, a discharged first sergeant from the army, becomes a professor at Stanford and meets Ronald Speirs. An off-handed comment from the man transports him to a time where he was younger and experiencing a bout of pneumonia in Haguenau. Eugene Roe, at the age of six, learns about healing people through his hands - a trait passed down to him by his grandmere. He would lay his tiny hands on sick animals and cure them, praying to the Lord and the spirits of the Bayou to heal the creatures. The first time he touches the blood of another human being, Eugene finds himself staring blankly at the ground, not seeing the green moss of the swamp, but of white sheets covering Belgian lands. </p><p>It's the year 2013 and reincarnation is in style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost Lullaby (Summer 2013)

**Author's Note:**

> based **loosely** on this tumblr reincarnation prompt - _You somehow find a diary/journal of your old self and read through the contents of how you met your soulmate centuries ago_  
>  (only one person actually has journals to go off of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Yes, I thought I was smart** _  
>  _**With my little selfish heart** _  
>  _**I could have made you stay** _  
>  _**If I had paid attention to** _
> 
> At the ripe age of eighteen, David Webster discovers in his family’s attic, a set of diaries written by his grandfather during his time as a paratrooper in the Second World War. As he reads and studies them, he finds out things about his grandfather that he never knew about - his tenure at Harvard, the hard army training, his love of the ocean, and the love for a man whom his grandfather identified as Joseph Liebgott. Reading the diary entries strikes a chord deep inside of him, rocking him to his core and suddenly, suddenly he remembers so clearly the details of Austria’s blue waters, Easy’s rocky descent into France, the bullet wound he endures.He remembers all of it. But most of all, he remembers Joseph - no, Lieb. It all goes downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title ( _Lost Lullaby_ ) taken from Frankie Valli and the Four Season's album, _Sherry and 11 Other Hits_  
>  song can be found here [xxx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wa5EIgtpRtE)
> 
> and this is totally not what i was supposed to be writing during winter break but i'm very happy with it  
> special thanks to my dearest friend erin 
> 
> anyway, please enjoy this first installment (this was like 17 pages i'm so sorry guys)

 

They’re packed away in a cardboard box covered in a thick layer of dust. The air in the attic is stuffy, the early summer heat fills the room and beads of sweat form along Webster’s temple. The sleeves of his white button up are rolled and pushed up to his elbows and he wipes the sweat from his forehead as he opens the box in front of him. He drops the box cutter on the wood floor, the flaps on the box opening easily. Webster reaches in, pulling out several thick books.

“Dickinson, Twain, Austen, Hawthorne,” Webster mumbles to himself, setting the copies gently on the floor. He removes a locked box next and he sighs, fingering the paddock. There's dust and dirt caking it and it rubs off on his fingers. He wipes his hand on his already dirtied blue jeans, returning to the box. He extracts the last of the books, blowing dust from them. The word _Journal_ is stamped in swirling gold text on the front cover of four of the books, and the rest are copies of Orwell and Dickens, another Austen and several Hemingway titles. Webster sets the others aside and opens one of the journals. The paper is yellowed and he almost feels bad touching it but then he sees his name, or rather his grandfather’s name, scrawled on the top of the page, _David Kenyon Webster, June 1942 - February 1943_.

Webster hums softly. He flicks to the next page, the second day of June - his birthday, their shared birthday - and reads through the entry. It's a few pages long, front and back, and when he finishes it, he shuts the journal with a sigh. The next entry skips all the way to August. _Boring,_ he thinks to himself. Webster packs the books and locked box back up, closing the flaps and shoving the box cutter into his back pocket. He hefts it into his arms and heads down the stairwell, nudging the door shut with his hip, that connects the third floor to attic. Webster deposits the dusty box in his room and grabs the locked box from it, heading downstairs to the kitchen.

His mother, Catherine, is at the island, hands covered in flour, her blonde hair tied back from her face. He wonders briefly where the cook is but dismisses the thought, clearing his throat. “Mother? Do you know if there’s any bolt cutters in the shed?” He asks, gesturing to the box in his hands.

“I'm sure there’s some somewhere, dear. Why don't you ask Alex?” She suggests, smearing flour on the countertop. “What’s that you've got there, David?”

“Just a box. I was in the attic looking for father’s violin and stumbled upon a box of grandfather’s

old things. Some of his books and his journals from the war were in it, along with this,” He steps closer to the island. “What are you making?”

“Scones, or attempting too,” She smiles quickly at him, rolling out the buttery dough.

He nods, “I'm going to the shed.” He heads outside through the pantry, the back door that leads to the shed and the guest house. He passes the guest house, the green lawn billowing in the soft wind that blows through the yard. The leaves rustle in the wind, Webster’s shoes crunch on the gravel and the sun warms his skin even more. He reaches the shed, tugging the door open and steps inside. Webster quickly locates the bolt cutters and puts the box on the work table. He snaps the lock off and returns the bolt cutters where he found them. Sliding the lock out of place, he opens the chest, brows furrowed.

It's practically empty. There's a photo album and a set of dog tags. He grabs the box and trudges back to the house, dropping himself in the breakfast nook.

“So, David, what was in your mystery box?” His mother asks, wiping his hands off on a towel as she sits next to him.

“A photo album and grandfather’s dog tags,” Webster responds. He hands his mother the album and holds the dog tags in his hand. He runs his thumb over the text. “Do you think he enjoyed being a paratrooper?”

His mother makes a considering noise as she opens the photo album. “I'm sure he liked certain parts of it. To be perfectly honest, David, I'm surprised your grandfather even enlisted,” she says and then points to a picture of his grandfather. “You look just like him. Same blue eyes and square jaw.”

“Cornflower blue,” Webster replies. He and his mother flip through the album. The pictures range from the 1930s to the 1960s, the last one dating two months before his grandfather’s death. He had died in California, three thousand miles away, lost at sea. Webster chews on the inside of his lip, a strange feeling pooling in his stomach. His mother hands him the album and gets up to wash her hands and pull the scones from the oven. They're chocolate chip. He takes two and a bottle of water, going upstairs to his room. The feeling doesn't leave him as he eats the warm scones. They're flaky, like a croissant, but he doesn't mind as he finishes the second one, washing it down with a few gulps of water. He drops down on the floor by his window, the first of his grandfather’s war journals in hand.

 

**_August 12, 1942_ **

_The stifling heat of the Georgia humidity is enough to make man miss the cold air of New York in the winter. Lieutenant Sobel has the company working day and night. Our bodies are drained of energy. Most of us have had our weekend passes revoked, including myself, on false charges of untidiness. The correct disciplinary actions have been taken, of course, per Lieutenant Richard Winters discretion. He's a good man from Pennsylvania and his closest friend Lewis Nixon, from New Jersey, work incredibly well together. I'm almost envious of their relationship, seeing as I have met been able to make any real connections to the other men here at Camp Toccoa, aside from Pvt. Hoobler, whom I find myself gravitating towards too the most._

_Donald Hoobler shares the cot next to mine. He's got large ears but a friendly disposition. I quite enjoy his company and I feel that maybe we will be lifelong friends if we survive the war. That is, if Lieutenant Sobel doesn't kill us first. Hoobler is one of the best marksmen we have in the company, rivaling the talented Darrell “Shifty” Powers and Wayne “Skinny” Sisk. They're both soft spoken individuals but Skinny can curse like a sailor when he’s drunk; perhaps he should've been one. Nonetheless, we’re all grateful to have him in Easy._

_Easy Company, that's where I’ve been placed in the 101st Airborne. How ironic, to be named Easy, when we are the hardest working company in the entire regiment. I can't complain when they're just trying to prepare us for what we will experience overseas but it's frustrating, working so hard to improve our bodies and minds, without one second to breathe. If there is one thing that has been beaten so rigorously into my body it is the steps it takes to climb Currahee._

_Translated, it means,_ We Stand Alone.

 _True to the Cherokee word, Easy Company_ does _stand alone from the other eight._

_But I believe that’s more Lieutenant Sobel’s fault than our own._

 

Webster lets out a short chuckle at his grandfather’s words and he flips to the next entry, dating eight days later on August 20. He sighs to himself and takes a sip from his water bottle, eyeing the yellowed page.

 

**_August 20, 1942_ **

_I don't know how the others put up with him. Joseph Liebgott is one of the most insufferable people I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. If it weren't for the fact that the army needed him for his translating skills, I'd probably kill him. He’s driving me mad. He likes to pick verbal fights with me, mostly in German. As if I can't understand him! Of course I can! But I don't let on. I feign stupidity. It's easier. I tend to recite poetry when we get in heated arguments. The rhymes often shut him up._

_Hoobler tells me not to egg Liebgott on. He’s close to one of Joe’s friends, Chuck Grant. I don't know Grant well. He’s good friends with Christenson and Talbert and with an officer from Dog Company. He’ll most likely end up as an non-commissioned officer, along with Lipton. They're responsible men who take care of the company, making sure the rest of us are doing as we should be. They aren't able to control Liebgott, Malarkey, Muck or Alley. The four of them like to cause trouble among camp, accompanied by Luz. I do my best to stay out of their radius. They love to pick on Sobel. Most of us don't dare to piss the man off. We’d rather double time Currahee than face extortion. They seem to get off on the thrill though, on the chance of being caught by Sobel._

 

The strange feeling from earlier still sits in the pit of Webster’s stomach as he read. He reads through remaining August entries and makes it halfway through September when his mother knocks on his door. He stands and stretches, cracking the door open. “Yes?” He asks.

“Your father’s home and dinner's almost ready,” She tells him. “Take a quick shower, you're covered in dirt.”

“Alright.” Webster does as he's told and washes up, scrubbing dirt and grime from his body. He gets out and towels off, dressing in a clean black button up and grey jeans. He goes downstairs to the dining room. His father sits at the head of the table, his mother at his right. His three siblings sit at his father's left and he takes his place at his mother’s right.

They eat dinner in stiff silence and Webster does his best to escape his father’s questioning of how he spent his day. It's his father's way of “connecting” with his children. It makes Webster cringe. He tells him what he did, his father feigning interest as he talks about his day.

“Still planning on pursuing Literature as your area of study?” His father asks. There’s venom in his voice and his siblings snicker at him from behind their napkins as they wipe their mouth clean.

“Yes.”

“It's not too late to change to a law major. I can pull some strings, get you in the finest classes that Harvard has to offer.”

“I have no interest in becoming a lawyer, father. I want to study literature, I've already submitted the paperwork,” Webster grits through his teeth.

His sister, Peggy, laughs, “You're going to end up just like grandfather, aren’t you? Fixated on literature and marine biology. Dead by the time you’re thirty-five.”

“I'm quite skilled in biology, Peg,” Webster retorts. “In fact, I can already tell you that your children will suffer from your ignorance, becoming bitter and angry, and the older you get, the more they will hate you.”

“Shit,” his eldest brother, John, swears. He had gone to Harvard to become a lawyer, graduating the same year that Webster had started the fifth grade. John sips idly at his wine, the engagement band of his finger glistening in the light of the dining room.

“That's enough,” their father snaps and Webster takes a gulp of his water. “David, a background in Literature will get you nowhere in life, you must study something substantial.”

“Literature is substantial,” he pokes at his dessert with his fork, raspberry cheesecake with white chocolate shavings - his mother’s favorite.

His father gathered his napkin in his hand, dropping it unceremoniously on the table. “Why can't you be more like John and Peter?” He growls, getting up and exiting the dining room.

Webster leaves the dining room quickly after that, cheesecake forgotten, ignoring his mother’s calls. He storms back to his bedroom and shuts the door, locking it behind him. He grabs his grandfather's journal off the floor and lays down in his bed, opening it back up.

 

**_September 17, 1942_ **

_The Georgia heat continues to get substantially worse, the humidity reaching higher and higher each day. My legs are covered in a multitude of mosquito bites and my arms are in the same condition. Sobel is determined to run our bodies ragged, but he's stopped revoking passes for now. I've managed to snag one this weekend, along with most of Easy Company._

_Liebgott continues to be insufferable. He enjoys picking on me. I don't know what I did to make him hate me so and I'm not inclined to resolve the matter. He only seems to attack me when we’re with others. I suppose it’s some tactic of his to appear ‘cool’. I have admitted to knowing some German and on the rare occasion that Liebgott doesn’t feel like appearing ‘cool’ in front of the others, we find ourselves engaged in conversation - often in German. He’s more fluent than I, but I know he enjoys being able to speak his first tongue with someone else who understands it. I enjoy it too; he’s a good conversationalist._

_Of the things I've learned about Liebgott is that he is the oldest of six children, born to Jewish parents in California. He worked in a barber shop as a child, juggling school and work during the Great Depression. He drove a cab right before joining the paratroopers and loves to play baseball. He plays in the outfield and whenever he’s in a fight, he has an ‘incredible left hook’ - or so he says. He’s an interesting fellow, with a nice smile and calculating brown eyes. He likes that I like the ocean, he told me so. He thinks the color of my eyes is cornflower blue, a remarkable and accurate description of their unique shade, if I do say so myself._

_We enjoy Sinatra and if it were socially acceptable, I believe that we would dance to him at the clubs. But it isn't and we are in the army, and being a homosexual is illegal. Thoughts of homosexual acts are not illegal but acting on these thoughts could get the both of us shot._

_I pretend it doesn't hurt when he kisses dames in front of me, even though it feels like my heart is being ripped from chest._

 

**_September 18, 1942_ **

_Sobel revoked our passes at the last minute and Easy Company endured a grueling twelve mile march in the sweltering Georgia heat. My feet ache and Hoobler nearly collapsed from sheer exhaustion. We were not allowed to drink from our canteens again. Hoobler thinks that Sobel is trying to kill us through dehydration tactics. I don’t agree with this notion. We would have to suffer from severe dehydration but I’m not sure Hoobler is up to arguing with me. Liebgott was oddly quiet. Luz too. They usually sing under their breath as we march - left, left, left, right, left. Winters allows it, if only to keep us from rioting and banding together to kill Sobel.  There are blisters on my toes, worse than the ones I had when I first started wearing my regulation boots. I’m tempted to pop them open but I’ll ask Doc Roe before I go about doing so._

_Liebgott is smoking by the window next to my bed. He’s muttering to himself in German. Hoobler is in his cot next to mine, fast asleep. Most of the men are either shining their boots or slipping into their cots to rest for a few hours. Lipton is turning down everyone’s blankets. He’s good like that, making sure we’re all ready to go. He says it is a habit formed from many years of working in a boarding house, to turn down the covers for their occupants, even if it’s just the corner. I don’t believe him. Liebgott is stubbing out his cigarette and walking over to his cot. He climbs in, his back to me as he settles in for his two hours of sleep. I suppose I should rest too._

 

**_September 19, 1942_ **

_Currahee is the bane of my existence. I’ve run up and down that goddamn mountain for Lieutenant Sobel more times than I can count. I loathe running that trail. I loathe Lieutenant Sobel. Days like these are when I wish I hadn’t joined the army. If I hadn’t wanted to experience something life changing, I wouldn’t be here, running up and down Currahee in a full pack just three hours after our twelve mile march during the night. We are getting better at those though. The marches. We’re returning earlier and walking faster, our bodies used to the horrid treatment of Lieutenant Sobel. I have slept just three hours in the past day, accounting to over thirty hours of consciousness with a simple nap to hold my body together. It’s currently lunch time, all of Easy and Dog are gathered in the mess hall. The shepherd’s pie is disgusting and sits heavy in my stomach. It’s worse than the meatloaf that they’ve served at dinner for the past three days._

 

**_September 25, 1942_ **

_Liebgott and I left the base earlier in the night. We went to one of the bars in town, meeting up with a few of the others who managed to wrestle and retain a weekend pass from Sobel. Liebgott and I sat in the back booth, nursing a couple of beers. The molasses colored alcohol matched his eyes. My heart lurched in my chest when he caught me staring, lips tugging up in a smirk. We shared a couple of cigarettes before leaving the bar, abandoning Skinny, Talbert, and Toye._

_We walked back to base, side by side. We shared more cigarettes and Liebgott complained, in English, about a letter that his mother had written him. He informed me that he had yet to write back, unsure of what to tell her. She had wanted to know if he needed anything, if he knew where he would be deployed and when. She wanted to know things that we don’t even know yet. We aren’t even paratroopers. I’m not good at telling others what they should write to their parents. I haven’t spoken to mine in nearly four months. My father is still angry at me for leaving Harvard. I don’t imagine him getting over that anytime soon. I didn’t tell him anything worthwhile and simply said that if his mother didn’t receive a letter back, she’d only send more. He agreed._

_Halfway back to base, Liebgott pulled me off the side of the road and into the woods surrounding us. He kissed me - once, twice, three times on the lips, each one longer than the last. It was heaven and when he pulled back from the last one, he had his eyes closed, like he was savoring each kiss._

_I would give anything to have his lips against mine one more time, if only for a moment._

 

Webster snaps the journal shut, swallowing hard. His grandfather had kissed a man. His grandfather had liked men. He sits up, running his hands through his hair. Had his grandmother known? Had anyone but Joseph Liebgott been aware of his grandfather’s affinity for men? Webster bites his lip and picks the journal back up. He holds it in his hands, hearing his heartbeat in his ears. If he shows his father the journals, he’ll confiscate them. If he keeps it a secret, he protects his grandfather’s dignity.

He runs his thumb over the stamped gold word, the tension in his shoulders falling away. That funny feeling in his stomach from earlier slowly slips away as he continues in the motion. He breathes out, an odd sensation overtaking him and suddenly, suddenly, the memories come flooding back. Webster can feel the way that Liebgott’s lips felt against his all those years ago, remembers the pain of being shot in the leg in Holland, the feel of Austrian waters on his skin. But most of all, he remembers Liebgott in the water next to him, hips rolling against his. The feel of his mouth on his collarbone the night after he comes back from the patrol where Jackson died. He can practically hear Liebgott’s teasing voice in his ear, the way his name, his first name, fell off his tongue. He remembers Liebgott twisting his hand in his uniform jacket as he cried in the truck as they left the concentration camp that was filled with malnourished and dying Jews.

Webster’s eyelids flutter, the feeling of tears on his cheeks pulls him back to the present and he wipes at his eyes. He sets the journal aside and leaves  his room, going to the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror, swallowing hard. His eyes are a little bluer than they were before, but the cornflower color is still prominent. Webster pushes his hair back, the strands longer and more curled. He’s got stubble on his cheeks and he splashes some cool water on his face, eyes shut as he feels the water roll down his skin.

How can this be? How can he remember a different person’s lifetime? Why is he remembering his _grandfather’s_ life? Maybe it’s psychological. Webster sighs and dries his face and hands, going downstairs to the kitchen. He cuts himself a new slice of raspberry cheesecake and leans against the kitchen sink, trying to process what exactly is going on in his mind.

He feels older, like his mind has aged but his body is intact. Webster runs simple facts through his head, trying to focus on the present and not the past. Physically, he is eighteen years old, a high school graduate with the highest diploma possible, who's going to Harvard in September. It is currently mid June and he is living in the family house, the same one that his father grew up in, the same one that his grandfather had lived in, the one his great-grandfather had built. His mother’s maiden name is Catherine Margaret Madison and his father’s name is Joshua Charles Webster. He has an uncle named Harrison Webster and a great uncle named Stanley Webster, who lives in a retirement home. The year is 2013. His brother John is a lawyer, Peggy - a psychiatrist, and Peter is working to be a pediatric doctor. His name is David Kenyon Webster and he is named after his grandfather. He is absolutely not his grandfather except that he is.

Webster and his grandfather share the same traits. They both love the ocean. They love to read and to write. Webster is going to study literature at Harvard and his grandfather had done the same before the war. They have the same colored eyes, the same square jaw and thick brown hair. Webster has a terrible relationship with his father and his grandfather had the same terrible relationship as well. Webster hikes up his right pant leg, tracing his finger over the thick scar. Peter had hit him with a shovel once, when he was fifteen, slicing open his calf. He had needed fourteen stitches. That was one difference. His grandfather had been shot.

But that still didn’t explain why he could remember all those things that his grandfather had experienced. He had never heard stories about the war before. His father never knew either. The only person who may know anything about it is his uncle Harrison because he’d been the eldest of his grandfather’s three children. He taps the dessert fork against his bottom lip, trying to come up with reason why he was remembering his grandfather’s life.

“It ain’t as complicated as you’re making it seem, Webster,” a voice taunts. He jumps, nearly dropping his cheesecake and plate on the floor.

“Who said that?”

“I did,” the voice says again and Webster swears he’s heard it before. He knows that voice. He’d heard it a million times, back in Toccoa and across the Atlantic in England and France. “C’mon, Web, you aren’t that stupid.”

The voice clicks in his head with a face. The face of a dead man. A man who was blown to bits in Belgium by a German shell. _Muck_ , he thinks and he’s right, the kitchen light flicking on to reveal Muck in modern clothes, wearing a band tee and jeans accompanied by a brown leather jacket. “What the fuck?” Webster whispers, staring at Muck with wide eyes.

“Hey buddy,” Muck grins and cuts himself a slice of cheesecake, easily finding a plate to deposit it on and a fork to eat it with. “You look like you’ve seen a dead man.”

“I’m looking at one,” Webster replies, setting his plate and fork to the side. “What are you doing here, Muck? You died in Belgium over seventy years ago.”

“Who’re you calling dead? I’m right here, professor.”

Webster’s expression hardens, “Don’t call me that. I’m not him.”

“Not who?” Muck asks innocently, “Not your grandfather? Because you are.”

Webster studies Muck. He’s got the same eyes, his hair is longer and his face isn’t as thin. He shows signs of life, of eating well and exercising. “I can’t be him, Muck. He died in the sixties.”

Muck hums around a mouth full of cheesecake, chewing slowly. He swallows and asks, “Have you ever heard of reincarnation? The thing where something or someone is reborn into a new body?”

“Yes.”

“Well, okay then, see,” Muck sets the plate down and faces Webster head on as he says, “You, technically, are an entirely different person from your grandfather. The technical part of it all only exists until you remember your past self’s memories. You have very similar qualities and identical features to him as well but those are to help make you more recognizable to others who’ve also been reincarnated in this century. I know this is a little hard to hear and understand but you’ll get it eventually. Now, you have the same memories that your grandfather had and the actions that he made when he was alive. You have a near identical thinking process. There’s hardly any difference between the two of you.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “Everyone gets reincarnated differently. Some are lucky and end up in bodies that are exactly the same as they were at certain stages of their life. Scars and burns, things that happened in a past life happen in different ways in this life. For example, instead of getting shot in the leg in Holland, you got cut open by a shovel. You just so happened to end up with a scar earlier than expected but it won’t mess up the timeline that’s been set out for you. It’s similar to the concept of a fixed point in time and space. It’s always going to happen at some point, in every lifetime that you live. See, my death - it's not a fixed point in time. Neither is Penk’s. But take Janovec, that kid’s death is a fixed point in every timeline. There’s not one timeline where he lives past age twenty. Terrible, isn’t it?”

Webster nods. His grandfather has witnessed Janovec’s death, _“81. I’ve got 81 points.”_ A shiver runs up his spine. He opens and closes his mouth several times before settling on his next words, “What about Guarnere and Toye? Are their missing legs fixed points, too?”

Muck shakes his head. “No, that was an accident. Purely accidental. The dud that hit just outside  Lipton’s foxhole that one night wasn’t supposed to be there, either. If it had gone off, well, Easy Company would’ve fallen to pieces so you should be glad that it didn’t. Bastogne is probably one of the few points in our timelines where everything gets kind of...screwed up. Those months in Bastogne and outside of Foy, well, anyone who died or got shot wasn’t actually supposed too. Just more accidents,” He picks his plate back up and puts another forkful into his mouth. “Anyway, this isn’t about that. I’ll explain all that stuff later. Right now, you need to tell me how you remembered.”

“I found some of my grandfather’s journals - well, my old journals, I guess - from the war,” Webster explains. “I was reading the earliest one, from August 1942 and I had just found out that my past self was apparently, really into this guy named Joseph Liebgott and he was really into my past self too. I closed the journal and was running my thumb over the gold lettering stamped on the front when I started to remember it all.”

“Any funny feelings before hand?”

“Yeah, I had this strange feeling in the pit of my stomach when I started thinking about how my grandfather - my past self - died,” Webster tells him and Muck nods.

“Lost love is the worst thing to experience,” Muck says quietly to himself. “It’ll eat you up inside. That’s why you’re here. Why you’ve been reincarnated. You didn’t get to be with him and now the fates are trying to get the two of you back in each other’s lives.”

“And then what about you? Why are you here? How did you get in my house, anyway?”

“Look, this isn't about me, Web, it's about you,” Muck dismisses the questions. “How did you get that feeling to go away?”

“I already told you that I sat in my room reading his - my - journals.”

Muck considers this and then nods, “Right, right. Is there anything else that you might've stumbled across?”

“His dog tags, a photo album, his old books, nothing out of the ordinary, Muck.”

“Did you touch them? The tags, I mean,” Muck questions.

He nods, saying, “Yeah, that's when I started thinking about how he drowned.” A violent shudder runs through him and Webster grips the counter. His skin crawls, feeling pinpricks on his arms and legs like ice, and he gasps out. He sinks to the tiled floor of the kitchen, on his butt, gasping for breath. Muck is kneeling in front of him, counting, telling him to calm down and he feels like he’s drowning. He feels the cold water filling his lungs and he can’t _breathe why can't he breathe, what’s going on_. He fists his hand in Muck’s shirt and the other wraps his arms around him, rubbing his back.

“It's okay, buddy, I got ya,” Muck says. “This is the hardest part. I know because I had to go through this too. It’ll be okay. You just gotta breathe in deep, it's just a memory now. Okay? Inhale - one, two, three, exhale.”

Webster shakes his head, still gasping for breath. His eyes are watering and his vision swims.

“Webster, breathe,” Muck demands, “You have to _breathe_.”

“I can't,” He gasps out, ragged and hoarse, “I can’t.”

“Yes you can, in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He fixes Muck with a glare, which the other returns as he instructs him again how to breathe. He copies him, counting in his head. _Inhale - one, two, three, exhale, repeat._ Webster does it for a minute, head clearing as the pressure on his lungs fades away. “What was that?” He asks softly.

“It's kind of like deja vu, experiencing something over again as if you've already gone through it,” Muck pulls back, clapping Webster on the shoulder. “Imagine how it feels to blow up.”

“That’s not funny, Skip,” he whispers and Muck shrugs. “So I experienced drowning… again.”

“Something like that. In this timeline, you’ve never actually experienced drowning before so your body simulated what it thinks drowning would be like, all based off of what past you felt,” Muck sits back, crossing his legs. “Like I said, try being blown up.”

Webster makes a noise in the back of his throat and wipes at the drying wetness on his cheeks. “How often does that kind of stuff happen?”

“It’ll happen a lot for people who are more sensitive to like, other worldly things. Some don't ever experience their past self’s death and others will only ever experience that singular occurrence. For you, touching your grandfather’s tags made you think about his death, making you get that funny feeling in the pit of your stomach. Mine just happened to be my death too. It can usually start with traumatic experiences, something that’ll shock you deep inside. But occasionally, it'll be something good, like getting a girl or having a nice smoke. Crazy, right?” Muck mutters.

Webster bites his lip and looks down at his lap. His index finger twitches, like it's ready to pull the trigger on an invisible gun. “How many of us are there?”

“A lot. This happens more often than you think.”

“Do they have the same reason for coming back as I do?”

“Some, but everyone’s different. Sure they have similar circumstances but no person has the exact same reason. Come on, grab your keys. Let's go for a walk, fresh air will do you good,” Muck stands and stretches, his shoulder blades popping.

He helps Webster up and they leave the house through the pantry door, walking around the estate to the front gate. They slip through it and walk down the long dirt road. The summer wind has kicked up and it blows through Webster’s hair. Muck is kicking at the gravel, hands shoved in his pockets. They walk in comfortable silence for a while before Muck breaks it, commenting, “Kind of reminds you of Sobel’s night marches, huh?”

“Yeah,” agrees Webster. “Hey, Skip?”

“Hmm?”

“What made you remember?”

Muck is quiet for a few beats, the crunch of their shoes on the gravel is the only sound that fills their ears. “I saw… I saw Malarkey…” He says. “I was in Portland, looking for others. I had already seen Grant at Stanford, thought I’d make my way around. Travelling is pretty easy for guys like Grant, Guarnere, Welsh, and me. There’s some girl, Lena, and another man but none of us have met him. But anyway, I was in Portland, just walking on the street and there he was. Standing right in front of me. He said my name, my real name, this broken, desperate sound and,” Muck inhales sharply. “And I blacked out. Fainted. Woke up in a hospital ward about six hours later. Had a couple of intense seizures, swelling in my brain. The doctors couldn't figure out what was going on with me and then it all magically disappeared.”

“Seeing Malarkey caused you to remember?”

“Yeah. I talked to Welsh about it. He didn't understand it because we’re already supposed to know about how we died. We aren't supposed to be able to experience those deja vu moments.”

“But you did.”

Muck hums in reply, “Yes I did. After the hospital incident, I found Don in Astoria. He slammed the door in my face until I picked the lock and popped inside. He’d been handling the whole remembering thing pretty badly. No one even realized he had been reincarnated. He was a mess, still is a mess, but I’ve got other people to help out and he’s pretty understanding.”

Webster stops walking. They're at the edge of the gravel drive now. Muck stands next to him and nudges him with his elbow, smiling slightly.

“Hey, don't sweat it. The hard part is over,” Muck says. “Read your old journals, find some more things that belonged to him and get yourself to California. You need Liebgott.”

“What if he doesn't want me? What if he hasn't remembered yet?” Webster asks.

“He will.”

“But what if he never does?”

Muck fixes him with a defiant look. “He’ll remember you. Every pair of soulmates does.”

He makes a distressed sound and Muck claps him on the back with a sigh. “But-”

“No more ifs, ands, or buts! Let’s get you home, Web. You need to sleep off all this news, and tomorrow, you’ll want to read all about yourself,” Muck turns him around and pushes him up the walkway. “Trust me, I’m gonna help you but I've got others to worry about. My number’s already in your phone, text me if you've got questions about the reincarnation thing. Get home, get to bed, and go to sleep. I've got to see a man about the whereabouts of one George Luz.”

Webster whips back around but Muck has disappeared. He pushes his hair back, his shorter hairs falling back down on his forehead. “Fuck,” he mumbles and walks the one mile back to his family’s house. He gets inside and makes sure that all the doors are locked. Webster cleans up the cheesecake from earlier, washes the dishes and dries them, then takes another shower. He crawls into cool sheets and dreams of a far of place across the sea, of boys in combat boots, and of Joe Liebgott.

 

* * *

 

Webster spends the rest of his summer holed up in his room, reading his past self’s journal entries about the war. He learns more about Liebgott and about Hoobler. They had become friends. His grandfather had missed the death of best friend in the army and Joe had held that against him when he returned to Easy in Hagenau.

Webster confines himself to the safety of his bedroom, only leaving for breakfast and dinner. His father habitually bitches at him during dinner for choosing Literature over Law, to which Webster excuses himself.

The journals his past self wrote take Webster back to the war and when he reads about getting shot in Holland, a sharp, stinging shock runs through his leg that makes him cry out. _Stupid deja-vu bullshit,_ he thinks to himself. He lies to his mother when she asks what’s wrong, muttering something about jabbing his toe into the side of his desk.

The day before he leaves for Harvard, Webster calls Muck, head bowed against knee as he waits for the other to answer.

 _“Hello?..”_ Comes the sleepy reply from the other side.

“Hey Muck, it's Webster…” he sighs into the receiver and there's a shuffle of fabric.

_“Skip...phone…”_

_“Yeah?”_ Muck’s voice filters in and the shuffle of fabric makes Webster cringe a little. Something - the phone - falls and then Muck’s saying, _“Hello?”_

“Muck, it's Webster, I need your help. I don't know what to do.”

_“Hmm? What with?”_

“I don't think I can go to Harvard on Friday. It feels wrong…” Webster tells him, pacing around his room. His grandfather’s journals are stacked on his desk. He intends to take them with him. Webster bought one too, a few days ago, with fifteen pages already filled.

 _“Then don't go,”_ Muck replies, as if it's as simple as that.

He makes a frustrated noise, “I can't do that. My father expects me to go to the family alma mater.”

 _“Look, I can't tell you what to do. You either go or you don’t,_ ” Muck says. _“Joe still hasn't remembered so just fucking go to Harvard for a year and a half, like you did before, and then transfer to Stanford.”_

“Do you think that would work?”

 _“Probably,”_ Muck sighs and Webster can hear him press the phone to his chest. _“Yeah, Malark I’ll be done soon. Go back to sleep.”_

Webster slaps his hand against his face and groans softly, “Skip, I'm so fucking torn. I read the journals, I’ve done hours of research on reincarnation, but I still can’t fucking cope with the fact that I’m the literal incarnation of my grandfather just so that I can say I got the girl - fuck, guy.”

 _“You're making this a bigger deal that it really is, Web,”_ Muck replies. _“It's not that complicated and you’ll come to eventually. You can’t force yourself to understand this. Trust me, everything’ll make sense when you and Joe get together.”_

“Sure, whatever you say,” Webster says dejectedly into the receiver.

 _“I'll pop by on Friday and drive down to the college with you. Help you get settled in, maybe talk to you about getting together with Guarnere since he’s closer to you than I am,”_ Muck offers. _“How does that sound?”_

Webster considers the offer for a few minutes. Muck whistles softly on the other line. Webster has always loved Philadelphia and Muck isn't wrong about Bill being closer. He rubs at his eyes. “Okay,” he concedes. “I’ll see you on Friday. I'm leaving at noon.”

 _“Awesome, great, see you then._ ”

The line clicks and Webster tosses his phone on his bed. He lets out a loud groan and sets to packing. He cleans out his dresser, tossing various sets of shirts, pants, socks, and underwear on to his bed. He grabs his everyday button ups - mostly solids, some old flannels that belonged to John - and some dress clothes, just because he knows that it’ll please his father. Webster packs his books and whatever college textbooks he’s been able to acquire in a separate box, but leaves the journals on the desk. Those, he puts in his backpack, because they’re safe there. He shuffles around his room and thinks more about Muck’s promise of going to see Guarnere in Philadelphia.

 

* * *

 

Muck shows up thirty minutes before Webster has to leave for Cambridge. It’s only a two hour drive and freshmen check-in will be well underway by the time that Webster gets there. He spots Muck leaning against his car, the man working his way through two cigarettes in under five minutes.

“Hey, David, there’s some guy leaning against your car,” John tells him when he comes downstairs, bag slung across his shoulder and suitcase in hand.

“Oh, yeah, that’s my friend, Skip,” he replies. “He’s driving to Cambridge with me to help me get settled and then he’ll head to Boston to catch the Amtrak to Hartford.”

John gets up from his seat on the couch, and grabs the suitcase from Webster’s hands, saying, “You know I don’t mind driving you up there. I don’t know why you insist on not letting us help you out.”

“It’ll be too frustrating and I’m not taking a lot of stuff anyway. Just books and clothes and food,” Webster brushes past his brother and out the door, nodding at Muck. He receives a wink in return. Webster passes him his backpack, which Muck holds carefully to his chest.

John follows him out, dropping the suitcase in the trunk. He leans against the car, arms crossed over his chest. “David, just let me come with you. Even Peter let me help.”

“I'm not Peter,” Webster snaps and goes back into the house and up to his room. He grabs the box of books and food, trudging down to the car. His mother now stands out there, arms wrapped around herself. John takes the box from him, loading it in.

Muck hands him the backpack, which Webster puts behind his seat with a sigh. His mother kisses his cheek and he hugs her. John shakes his hand, wrapping a tanned arm around their mother. Muck slips into the passenger seat and Webster, the driver’s.

They pull away from the house and Muck jams the AUX cord into his phone. Rock music filters on through the speakers as they drive.

Muck clears his throat, “I talked to Guarnere about meeting up with you. He said that it wouldn't be a problem so long as you didn't mind driving down to Philly. He’s got his hands full of Joe Toye flipping his shit over getting his leg blown off, and he can’t risk leaving the guy. I completely understand, y’know? Anyway, any day is good for him, just text him when you’re on your headed down.”

“Okay,” Webster agrees and rubs at his temple. “Sorry you got blown up, Skip. I can’t be fine to imagine what that's like.”

Muck shrugs and shifts in his seat. He toes off his shoes and props his legs up on the dashboard. “Just glad Luz and Malarkey didn’t bite it with us.”

“Yeah.”

They lapse into silence after that. Webster taps his fingers against the wheel to the beat of the songs playing from Muck’s phone. They reach Farmingham and Webster flexes his hands. Muck plucks his phone from the cup holder and turns the volume down, Patrick Stump’s voice fading into the background.

“You shouldn't be so worried about this. It’ll only be for a year and a half then you can come out to California,” Muck says, popping his knuckles. Nervous habit, he had once told Webster - back in boot camp.

“I'm not worried about that. I'm more worried about Joe than anything.”

“Why? Grant’s not gonna fuck it up, promise.”

The car stops at a red light and Webster’s smooths his hands over his pants. “He’s going to be so angry though, I can already tell. He’s going to be so mad at me for not coming to find him, for not telling him,” He babbles, fixating his eyes on the road ahead of them.

Muck scoffs, “He’ll get over it. If there’s anyone to be pissed at, it would be Grant. And you can’t tell him anyway, Joe has to figure it out himself and everyone remembers differently.”

“How did you?”

“I already knew, ever since I was little,” Muck stares out his window. “The special ones - me, Bill, Welsh, and Chuck - we’ve known since we were born. We can be friends with the others - like how Guarnere lives in Philly with his guys, except Bull and Roe - but we can’t tell them anything about the war until they remember.”

Webster doesn't ask any more questions after that and they arrive in Cambridge around 2 in the afternoon. He gets checked in and gets his dorm key. They carry his stuff up to his room - Muck carries his suitcase and backpack, Webster takes the box of books. The unpacking process is quick and Webster’s roommate shows up and leaves as soon as they set their stuff down.

Muck walks with Webster back down to the ground floor and claps him on the back. “It’ll be fine, Web. I’ll see you ‘round, okay?”

“Yeah,” nods the other. “Thanks for the help, Skip.”

“Sure thing.”  
Webster turns and goes back to his room, leaving Muck to find his way to the bus station. He drops on to his bed and curls up, back to the door, and dozes. He’s woken by his roommate coming back, the door slamming shut behind them. Webster presses his face into his pillow, ignoring the sound of the other person banging things around, attempting to get settled. He eventually sits up and grabs his phone and headphones, plugging into the jack and jamming the buds into his ears. He turns the music up, Depeche Mode lulling him back to sleep.


	2. Tonite, Tonite (Summer/Fall 2013)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Well, tonite, tonite** _  
>  _**May never reach an end** _  
>  _**I'll miss you so** _  
>  _**Til you're in my arms again** _
> 
>  
> 
> If there is one thing that Carwood Lipton wasn’t expecting in his life, it was becoming an English teacher. And not just any kind of English teacher, Carwood became an English professor at Stanford - with no prior experience whatsoever, aside from the occasional substitution job in West Virginia. Classes would be starting in a week and Carwood still has no idea what the syllabus will look like, even though he’s worked nonstop on it since he accepted the position. He paces around his office, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face. The pads of his fingers trace over the scars on his face - a product of his time in the army when the United States was at war in Afghanistan and Iraq.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title ( _Tonite, Tonite_ ) taken from Frankie Valli and the Four Season's album, _Big Girls Don't Cry and 12 Other Hits_  
>  song can be found here [xxx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9L3AK3PZxc)
> 
> all mistakes are my own; a beta'd version will be uploaded at a later time  
> enjoy :)

If there is one thing that Carwood Lipton wasn’t expecting in his life, it was becoming an English teacher. And not just any kind of English teacher, Carwood became an English professor at Stanford - with no prior experience whatsoever, aside from the occasional substitution job in West Virginia. Classes would be starting in a week and Carwood still has no idea what the syllabus will look like, even though he’s worked nonstop on it since he accepted the position. He paces around his office, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face. The pads of his fingers trace over the scars on his face - a product of his time in the army when the United States was at war in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Five weeks ago, Carwood had been hired by Headmaster Sink to come and work at Stanford as the new Greek and Roman classics professor. He tried explaining to the ex-colonel that he had no experience but the man simply scoffed and told him that he’d do a fine job. He accepted the proposal hesitantly and two weeks later, Carwood was on plane headed to San Francisco.

He’s met a total of seven people, including Sink, since he’s started his new job. Dick Winters, the Dean of Admissions had greeted him when he arrived with a soft smile and kind eyes. His partner, Lewis Nixon - a member of the university’s board of directors - smirked at him, offering a swig from the silver flask he carried at his hip. He’d also met Harry Welsh, a close friend of Nixon’s, who was madly in love with an admissions counselor down at UCLA. Harry was a Physics professor and believed that Kitty Grogan - said admissions counselor - was the love of his life and would find no other woman as perfect or as charming as she. The other three were custodians who worked the night shifts, often finding Carwood in his office past ten in the evening, working on his incomplete syllabus.  

Carwood stares at the piles of books on his desk. He’s so frustrated and tired. He hasn’t been _tired_ in a long time. He sighs and grabs his keys, leaving his office and locking the door behind him. As he turns, he bumps right into another body, and there’s a wetness on his shirt that smells like coffee.

He looks up, coming face to face with Ronald Speirs - one of the many history professors that teaches at the college. Much of the staff seems to be put off by him and often avoid Speirs whenever possible. Carwood stutters and Speirs looks down at his own shirt, smoothing a hand over the wetness there.

“Oh,” He mumbles softly, as if Carwood isn’t there.

“I’m terribly sorry, Professor Speirs,” Carwood apologizes quickly.

“It’s fine, no use crying over spilt coffee,” Speirs replies and looks back up at Carwood. There’s a shift of wonder in his green eyes and he asks, “You’re the new English professor, right? The one they hired to teach the Greek  and Roman classics?”

He nods, “Yes, sir, my name is Carwood Lipton. I was just in my office trying to figure out what exactly I should be teaching them. This is my first year and I’m nervous. I’ve only ever been a substitute teacher for high schools and I’m not entirely sure why they hired me for the job in the first place.”

“At least you got the job. Doesn’t that count for something?” Speirs motions for Carwood to follow him, which he does - his feet carrying him to Speir’s own office. “Headmaster Sink hired you for a reason, Mr. Lipton, he’s only ever made a few mistakes when hiring teachers. Nearly every English major has to retake the Greek and Roman classics course again because of what happened the last two semesters. It’s safe to assume that you’ve heard of that catastrophe from Nixon, correct?”

He falters. Catastrophe? “It’s Carwood,  please.”

Speirs opens his office door, holding it open for Carwood. He steps inside and Speirs enters after him, shutting the door. He tosses the empty coffee cup into the trash and walks over to his desk, opening up a drawer. Speirs tugs out a shirt and a sweatshirt from the drawer, handing the sweatshirt to Carwood.

He stares down at the maroon fabric, brows furrowed. “Professor Speirs?”

“Call me Ron,” he says.

“Why are you giving this to me, Ron?”

“Your shirt’s wet.”

Carwood swallows thickly and says, “Right, thank you, sir. I’ll just be going now, I didn’t mean to disrupt your afternoon.”

“You didn’t,” Ron tells him and starts unbuttoning his shirt, leaning against his desk. He shrugs it off and wipes at whatever residue is on his chest. Carwood watches him and Speirs glances up, making Carwood flush red. He earns a smirk in return and Speirs slips the shirt on over his head, sighing softly. “If you ever need a suggestion on Greek or Roman classics, I’ll be happy to help. I like to consider myself an enthusiast of Roman history and literature and I’ve dabbled with Greek literature as well.”

“Thank you, Ron,” Carwood nods and heads for the door. “I’ll um…” he looks down at the sweatshirt in his hands. “I’ll be sure to return this as soon as I’ve washed it.”

“Keep it.”

Carwood shifts from foot to foot but eventually acquiesces and exits the other’s office, hurrying to the men’s restroom to change. The sweatshirt is loose, faded, and slightly threadbare. He folds his shirt up and leaves the building, walking to his car. He lives across campus, something that is incredibly annoying but Carwood had been hired last minute and therefore, got one of the last rooms available to teachers.

As he drives, he thinks to himself that someone should’ve warned him about Ronald Speirs being incredibly hot.

 

* * *

 

He manages to finish the syllabus two days before classes start. Students are already arriving on campus and Carwood’s nervousness has caused his skin to flare up and leave him with perpetual splotches of red on his face. They remind him of the rosacea that his brother has. Carwood walks throughout the campus and watches students check in, lugging their belongings to their dorms. He goes to office after a bit, spotting Ron kicking his office door angrily. He strolls up to him and clears his throat.

“Did you lose your key, Ron?” He asks, glancing at the door.

“No, Welsh locked me out. I left my key ring inside.” He kicks at the door again, seething, “Goddammit, Welsh open up the fucking door before I break it. I’m not making Dick pay for another one because of your stupid ideas.”

Carwood bites his lip, hiding a smile. He can hear Harry cackling from the other side. He touches Ron’s arm. “C’mon, let’s go find Nixon. I’m sure he knows Kitty’s phone number.”

The laughter stops and Harry yells, “Lip! You wouldn’t!”

“He won’t, but I will,” Ron pushes past Carwood and is halfway down the hall when the door swings open and Harry is running after Speirs. He hops on to his back, tackling the other male to the ground. Ron throws him off and Harry’s back hits the wall with a sickening thud and a crack. Carwood ambles over as Speirs sits up, watching Harry through narrow eyes as the other male peels himself off the wall. The drywall is broken and all three men groan.

“Great, Dick’s gonna kill us,” Harry moans.

“You started it,” Ron kicks at Harry’s knee.

"Fuck you," Harry replies in turn.

“Guys,” Carwood coughs and they look up at him. “I can fix that. We just need to go to a hardware store.”

“Oh thank god,” Harry breathes and stands, rubbing at his lower back. “Jeez, Sparky, did you really need to throw me that hard?”

“Yes, I did,” He rolls his eyes and gets up, facing Carwood, “I’ll come with you and pay for the materials, it was my fault.”

“If you think that’s necessary.”

“I do,” Ron tells him and then turns to Harry. “Tell Dick what happened and let him know that I’ll be paying for the damages. Inform Nix that I’ll be late for tonight’s poker game as well.”

Harry gives him a mock salute and a toothy grin, wandering out of the building. Carwood kneels down, examining the hole in the dry wall. He sighs, picking up one of the broken pieces and turning it over in his hands. Speirs watches him, fingers twitching at his side.

“If you can tell me what you’ll need, I’ll just go get it now,” Ron offers. 

Carwood hums and lists off what he’ll need. “I’ll clean this up while you’re gone. It shouldn’t take you too long to find any of it. Just buy the cheapest stuff, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you anymore today.”

Ron shakes his head, “You’re not, Carwood. Don’t ever think that you are.” He dismisses himself and leaves the building.

Carwood licks his lips and cleans up the mess of drywall. One of the custodians helps him and when Ron returns, the sun is starting to set, the sky painted in orange hues. Speirs sets the bags down and gives Carwood a tight smile. They set to work on fixing the hole, talking about their classes and what they’re expecting to get out of the semester from their students. Carwood learns that Ron was born in the United Kingdom but grew up around the world at various military bases. He’s well versed in the French language and in military strategies. He enjoys reading war memoirs and would've joined the army if his grandmother hadn't needed to be taken care of. Carwood smiles sadly when he learns that Ron’s grandmother passed during the spring.

“I was in the army, discharged back in 2006,” Carwood dusts his hands off on his jeans. “My mother runs a boarding house in Huntington, West Virginia. It’s been passed down through the family since before World War Two. I felt bad for leaving her back when the war started, my brother had left for New York and my sister was getting ready for college - it’s just the two of us now - but she always told me not to worry about her. When I was there, in Afghanistan, I always put the health and safety of my men as my top priority. They email me every once in awhile, always telling me that if I hadn’t been there for them, they’d probably be dead.”

“That’s very admirable.”

He shrugs, “I’m not really one to admire. I was just doing my job as their sergeant.”

“If you really think that then you're not very smart,” Ron states as he cleans up around the patched hole. He wipes his hand on a damp towel from the restroom, the chalky residue making his skin itch. Carwood’s brow twitches and Ron meets his gaze. His eyes widen a fracture. “Oh, oh god I didn’t -”

“It's fine,” Carwood says stiffly, trying to not take the comment to heart.

“Carwood -”

“Ron, honestly, you don’t have to try and explain yourself,” He waves his hand around and makes a grab for the trash but Ron takes it. Carwood tries to take the bag from him but Ron holds it away.

“You should join us for poker tonight,” he suggests.

“I'm not any good. You’d beat me.”

Ron’s lips twitch into a brief smile, “That’s the whole point of playing. I never lose.”

“Then what is the point?”

“Free booze and Dick’s spaghetti,” Ron motions for Carwood to walk ahead of him as the leave their office building. “It's not very good, tastes like ketchup and cardboard, but when you're hungry and the food’s free, well, taste doesn't matter much at that point.”

“I suppose,” he smiled softly. “Can't be worse than the MREs we had overseas.

Carwood follows Ron to his truck. It's a faded red, an older Chevy model from the 1960s. Ron tosses the trash in the bed and they get in the cab, the metal of the doors squeaking softly. Ron steers the pickup out of the parking lot, turning down the road the leads away from the university. The windows are rolled down, the wind whipping through the cab, and the radio crackles in the background. They ride in comfortable silence to Dick’s home.

Dick and Lewis live off-campus in Mediterranean styled home, with a brown shingled roof and beige colored exterior. They slip out of the truck and Carwood takes in the moon and sun decorations on the outside of the home, glass mason jars lining the walkway. They're full of colored sand and small tea lights. His lips twitch into a smile because the house looks like a home, something Carwood hasn’t seen since he’d left West Virginia.

Ron knocks on the door, shoving his hands in his pockets. The door swings open a few minutes later, Nixon’s brow raised. Carwood gives a sheepish smile and Nixon steps back to let them in.

“Lew, who is it?” Dick calls from somewhere else inside the house.

“Speirs and Lipton,” he replies, shutting the door behind them. “Kick off your shoes, gentlemen. Where’s Harry?”

“Probably picking up shitty beer,” Ron says, toeing off his sneakers. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. “Dick need any help?”

“He’s got it covered,” Nixon looks Carwood up and down as the latter takes his shoes off, placing them side by side next to Ron’s. “Nice of you to join us, Lipton. Didn’t think you for a gambling man.”

“I’m not, really, Ron invited me.”

“Oh? Ron, is it?” Nixon shoots Ron a questioning glance, brow raised.

“It's not like that,” Ron says dismissively and skirts around Nixon to find Dick.

“Sure,” He says to Speirs's back. Nixon looks back at Lipton. “Come on, I’ll show you around the house.”

Nixon shows Lipton the lower and upper levels of the house, stating that most of the decor was purchased by Dick’s mother. The interior has the same beige colored walls, save for the dining room, kitchen, and bathrooms, which are painted in varying intensities of light purple.They're photos of the two placed in various areas of the upper and lower levels, most of the frames a rich brown, with the exception of a few eggshell ones. Nixon points out in one of the pictures of himself and Dick is where they met, a summer seminar for leadership. Nixon had gone unwillingly while Dick had been ecstatic to go. Lipton smiles at him and they go back downstairs, Nix smacking his lips against Dick’s quickly before wandering out of the kitchen.

“Do you need any help, Dick?” Lipton asks.

“Could you stir the sauce for me?”

He nods and grasps the handle of the pot, stirring the wooden spoon through the sauce. Dick hums softly, dropping the spaghetti noodles into the boiling water.

“Are you and Ron seeing each other?” Dick asks.

Carwood lets out a nervous sound, “No, we aren’t - we just met last week.”

Dick nods and glances at Carwood, “Ron doesn't normally bring people over for poker, he’s - well, he’s a loner.In fact, he's never brought anyone. If it hadn't been for Harry, I’m sure Nix and I never would've considered becoming friends with him.”

“Harry?”

“They met while Ron was in college overseas,” Dick stirs the noodles slowly. “Harry’s school took a trip to England and they were touring the college that Ron was attending when they stumbled upon each other. They’ve been friends ever since.”

“He didn't mention it earlier. I wonder if he’s ashamed of Harry,” Carwood says and stirs the sauce again. “You know that this is orange tinted, right?” He questions.

“Probably and yes, I do,” Dick peaks over his shoulder. “We can remake it. You don't deserve the ketchup flavored sauce.”

“I'm honored,” Carwood jokes.

“Good,” Dick smiles at him and digs in the cabinets next to Lipton’s head, pulling out cans of tomato paste and stewed tomatoes. Carwood suggests seasonings for the sauce as he empties and washes the pot.

They fix up the sauce together and Harry arrives just as dinner is ready. The curly haired man drops the case of beer in the fridge and pours himself a glass of water, draining it quickly. Ron and Nixon set the table, Harry helping Dick and Carwood dish out the food.

“Hey Lipton, beer or tea?” Nixon holds up a bottle of beer and the tea jug.

“Tea,” he replies, tucking himself into the chair next to Ron.

Nixon sets two glasses of tea on the table, one for Dick and the other for Carwood. Dick presses a quick kiss to Nixon’s cheek when the other returns to kitchen and Harry shoos them back to the dining room. Harry deposits three beers in the table and Nixon gladly takes a sip from the closest one as he takes his seat.

Dick holds his hands out and they take each other’s hands. Carwood couldn’t help but flush a little when Ron smoothed his thumb against the side of his hand. Dick says a quick prayer and Carwood murmurs a soft ‘amen’, and they dig into the spaghetti, Harry letting out an obscene sound.

“What did you do to this? It's so good!” Harry exclaims, licking at the sauce on the corner of his lips.

Dick and Carwood share a knowing glance and Nixon chuckles.

“Guess he didn't want to subject Carwood to the shitty sauce that he makes just for you, Welsh,” Ron notes, sounding uninterested as he wraps noodles around his fork.

“Oh hush, Sparky, there’s no need to act cool in front of Lip,” Harry says, taking another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. “We all know you're a massive dork deep down, once you get past the socially stunted exterior.”

“Harry,” Dick warns as Ron sets his fork down, fixing their curly friend with a narrowed gaze.

“Sorry, sorry, hey, c’mon Speirs, I don’t mean anything by it.”

Ron nods stiffly and finishes eating, taking occasional sips from his beer as the conversation changes. Nixon talks about what the board is planning on doing to prevent less frat parties and more communal events for the university to get younger students engaged. Eventually the discussion turns to Carwood.

“We really don’t know much about you,” Harry says. “I'm sure Nixon knows more because he’s a tech genius and hacks people but that's besides the point.”

“Well, there really isn't much to know,” Carwood shrugs.

“You were in the military, you must have some kind of story,” Harry insists.

Carwood stares down at his plate, “I really don't like to talk about it. The whole experience is hard to recall. Would I do it again if my country needed me? Yes, but I've got my share of scars, inside and outside. Some days though, I don't think I'd ever do it again."

“Carwood, you don’t -” Dick starts to say but he waves him off.

“I mean, getting hit wasn’t what tarnished my experience. Seeing my boys, teenagers, college kids, getting blown up - losing arms, legs, fingers - that's the hardest thing to come back from. I guess admiralty is one word you could use to describe how my boys saw me then - leading them and teaching them everything I could to get save them. But now, I think, if anything, they admire me because _I_ got them through those desert nights when their families - their parents, wives, sisters, brothers - were thousands of miles away and all they had were each other,” He takes a deep breath and continues, “They were good kids. They should never have had to go through that."

“How’d you get hit?” Harry asks quietlly. 

“Exploding shrapnel,” Carwood touches his facial scars and laughs, “A few pieces to the face and a few on my leg. Almost, uh…”

Nixon lets out a bark of laughter as Carwood trails off, cheeks flushing red. “It almost took off your nuts?”

“Missed them by about six inches.”

Harry claps and Nixon lets out a low whistle. Carwood smiles sheepishly at his hands as Dick excuses himself to clean up the kitchen. Ron follows after him, hands shoved in his jean pockets, mumbling something about the bathroom. The remaining men carry plates and silverware into the kitchen, depositing them next to the sink. Dick’s arms are elbow deep in soapy dishwater, humming as he washes the pots. Nixon kisses his partner’s cheek, murmuring to him. Whatever Nixon tells him, makes Dick flush a light red, elbowing the man gently.

Harry taps his fingers on the counter, “I say we veto poker tonight because we didn't have the traditional meal.”

“Agreed,” comes Ron’s voice as he leans against the door frame.

Nixon shrugs and Carwood sets the remaining dirty dishes next to Dick. “We’re having the annual barbecue tomorrow, come at three.”

“Four,” Dick corrects.

“Four,” Nix tells them quickly, his arm still looped around Dick’s waist, his head turned into the general direction of the others.

Harry nods, “I’ll be bringing Kitty, if that's alright. Oh and more beer, probably margarita mix too.”

Ron’s gaze lands on Carwood and he jerks his head back in a way that asks if the other wants to leave. Carwood gives a short nod and Nix unwinds himself from Dick to see Harry out.

“Need any more help, Dick?” Carwood asks.

The redhead hums, “No, I’ve got it covered.” He pulls his arms out and wipes them on a dish cloth. “Thank you both for coming tonight. It was a nice meal,” Dick smiles briefly at them.

Ron makes a sound and shrugs.

“Thank you for having me - us,” Carwood tells him and Ron nods jerkily.

Dick shows them out after that, and he and Nixon stand outside the front door, waving as they drive away.

Carwood leans back into the leather seat of the truck, the windows rolled down and the wind pushing through his brown hair. His phone buzzes and Ron casts a questioning glance at him as he opens the message - from Nixon - requesting that Carwood ask Ron to buy some champagne for the barbecue.

“He wants me to buy him champagne?" Ron asks bitterly.

“He says it’s for something special.”

“Define ‘special’.” Carwood passes his phone to Ron when he reaches a red light. He taps back a response quickly. The man ‘humphs’ and slides Carwood’s phone back to him. “He’s proposing tomorrow.”

“I thought they were in a civil union,” Carwood lifts his phone up when it buzzes again, Nix’s little winky face flashing across the screen.

“No, they're just together. I'm surprised Nixon is even ready to ask for someone's hand again.”

“Again?”

“From what I understand he was married briefly to a woman before he realized that he was in love with his best friend.”

Carwood stares at Ron. “He was married?”

“Yes.”

“I would never have imagined,” Carwood comments, shifting his gaze away as they pull into the dorm area.

Ron doesn't say anything as he parks his truck, pressing his forehead to the wide steering wheel with a sigh. “I don't know if I should spend a lot of money on that champagne or not.”

“I don’t know much about champagne,” Carwood tells him, “I’ve only had it a few times in my life.”

“Well, at least I’ll know that the taste won’t matter to you,” Ron sits back and shuts the truck off. “I’ll just make Nixon pay me back for something expensive. It’s not like we both don’t have the money.”

Carwood just gives him a curt nod and gets out of the cab, shutting the door behind him. He makes his way up to the apartment building, hands shoved in pants pockets and shoulders hunched against the breeze that sends a strange chill down his spine. He hears Ron slip out of the truck but the man keeps his distance and Carwood is so grateful because he just wants to be alone.

He makes it up to his room and barely manages to lock the door, kicking his shoes off as he falls face first into his bed, tugging the sheets over his head.

 

* * *

 

 

Carwood’s not entirely sure how Ron gets in his apartment the next morning. He’s not entirely sure that he locked the door the previous night either but something in the back of his head tells him that he did. He nearly jumps three feet in the air when Ron shakes him awake around noon the next day, green eyes softened in the dim light of his room.

“Ron! What are you - how did you -” Carwood stammers as he grabs at the blankets that have pooled at his hips.

“I picked the lock. Sorry.”

“You picked my lock?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t answer when I knocked, which I did, twice,” Ron states. “Nixon has another errand for me to run before the barbecue. Care to join?”

Carwood chews on the inside of his lip as Ron looks around his empty room. The apartment doesn’t look lived in; he’s only been there for a few weeks. He shifts and pushes the blankets aside, quickly tugging them back up to the headboard and smoothing them out. “I’ll just get dressed,” he mumbles, hurrying to his closet and then to the bathroom. He showers too quickly and shoves a toothbrush in his mouth as he dresses, swirling it around to until the paste is all foam. He spits the paste into the sink and rinses with mouthwash, exiting the bathroom as he tugs on a pale blue button up.

Ron is staring at Carwood’s book collection, running a finger over the spines. He watches as the other man plucks one of his books out, flipping it open. He tears his eyes away and he finishes buttoning his shirt as Ron replaces the book.

“Ready?” Ron asks, looking over at Carwood and he nods.

“Yeah - yes,” Carwood corrects himself and they head out.

 

* * *

  


They get to the barbecue after it’s already started. Ron slips upstairs before Dick can see what the man is carrying and Carwood greets the redhead with a smile and King Hawaiian bread rolls.

“Thank you,” Dick returns the smile and empties the bread rolls into a large bowl. “Did Ron come with you?”

“Yes sir, he went to go help Nixon.”

“Would you mind helping me with the other fixings? My help kind of disappeared,” Dick asks.

“Sure, where do you need me?” Carwood rolls up his sleeves, washing his hands and moving to where Dick wanted him.

Standing side by side, they shucked corn and sliced up peeled potatoes. They were occasionally interrupted by Nixon, bustling into the kitchen for more spices and marinated meats to put on the grill.

Once the food was ready, everyone gathered outside to eat on the grass and chatter among themselves. Carwood sits next to Dick on the deck, a companionable silence between them. Nixon drops down beside Dick, kissing his head and handing him a glass of lemonade. Carwood averts his eyes as Dick presses his mouth against Nixon’s. Ron, Harry, and whom Carwood assumes must be Kitty, come up to the deck, depositing themselves opposite the three others.

Kitty curls her feet under her skirt, resting her head on Harry’s shoulder. Ron sucks on the end of a cigarette. He tosses the butt in the grass after stubbing it out on the bottom of his boot. He excuses himself after that, slipping through the screen door and into the house.

“Ron’s so peculiar,” Kitty murmurs as she chews on a piece of rib meat. “Gentlemanly, but peculiar nonetheless.”

“It's just how he is,” Harry says, rubbing Kitty’s knee. “He's socially stunted, baby. Always has been, always will be."

“How can you say things like that?” Carwood hears himself ask.

“What? Lip, it's true. I've known Ron for 13 years and I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve actually seen him act like a human being,” Harry retorts.

Carwood’s face hardens and he gets up, going inside the house. He hears Nixon mutter, “way to go, Welsh,” as the screen door swings shut behind him.

He goes upstairs and finds himself looking at pictures of Dick and Lewis, ranging from childhood to adulthood. His gaze flicks over the brown frames, small smiles and drunken grins plastered on the pictures beneath the glass. He sees one with Ron in it, sitting casually in a lawn chair beside Dick, slim fingers curled around a bottle of beer. Dick has a glass of water in his hand and they're smiling at the camera and Ron _looks_ happy. But looking and actually being are two different things. Carwood shifts his gaze to the next picture, Nixon dressed in a black tuxedo and matching black tie. Dick stands next to him in the picture with a matching black tuxedo with a rose colored tie.

“That’s from Nixon’s first marriage.”

Carwood turns to see Ron leaning against the door frame to the bathroom. He flicks his eyes back to picture. “Right,” he murmurs.

“Did you need to use the bathroom?”

He shakes his head. “No, just got tired of Harry talking about you. He said some things that I didn't agree with.”

“About me?” Ron pushes himself off the frame and comes to stand next to Carwood.

“Yes,” Carwood watches Ron cross his arms over his chest, a stony expression on his face. “He practically called you a robot.”

“Douchebag,” Ron quips, his lips in a tight line.

“It's strange, imagining that Nixon was married at one point,” Carwood says softly.

Ron shrugs, “Dick was engaged once too. She broke it off though, realized that Dick was pining after Nix, and encouraged him to go after that drunkard.”

“Is he really?”

“A drunkard? By definition, no. He enjoys a good stiff drink a little too much if you ask me but Dick says he’s waning off slowly.”

Carwood gestures to the picture of Harry and Ron covered in colorful powder. Ron’s got a grimace on his lips and Harry’s toothy smile lights up the photo.

“Holi, it's an Indian color festival.”

He nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets, letting his gaze wander back and forth between the Holi picture and the lawn chair one. Carwood wonders - briefly - why Ron acts as though no one is truly interested in his opinions or happiness. He pulls his hand out of his pocket, rubbing absentmindedly at the scars on his cheek.  

“Let's go back downstairs,” Rom suggests after a few moments. His voice sounds disinterested and Carwood is almost positive that Ron has no true interest in the party, but he nods his consent, both men going downstairs to rejoin the party outside.

As the sun begins to set, Harry stands tall on the deck and raps a spoon against a beer bottle. “Can I have everyone's attention?” He calls out and the crowded backyard slips into silence, quiet murmurs here and there. Harry puts the bottle and spoon down, clapping his hands together. “When I was a college freshman, I met the most amazing woman in my entire life - aside from my mother,” he starts, chuckling with a few others  at his own comments. “Her name is Kitty Grogan and she has changed my life.” He turns to Kitty who’s sitting on the deck beside Dick, her feet still tucked under her skirt. Harry blushes softly and helps her up, bringing her into the middle of the deck for everyone to see.

“Harry, what are you doing?” She hisses softly, eyes wide.

“Now the first time I met Kitty’s parents, I was _terrified_. What if I fuck up the one good thing in my life? But I didn't. I was welcomed so lovingly into the Grogan household and six months later, I was in front of her father again, asking for his blessing and his advice on how to propose to his daughter,” Harry swallows hard and there are tears welling up in Kitty’s eyes. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, “It’s been nine years, today, since we had that conversation in a dingy little diner with the greasiest burgers I've ever had and her father told me that if I propose to her in front of people that love and care for us, just as much - if not more than the love and care we have for each other - then we will have a marriage that every person craves for. So, with all that said,” Harry chuckles nervously, tugging out a black velvet box as he gets down on his knee, opening it up. “Kitty Elizabeth Grogan, will you do me the honor of making me the luckiest and happiest guy in the world by becoming my wife?”

Kitty doesn't hesitate, nodding her head quickly, “Yes!” Harry slips the ring on her finger with steady hands and stands, kissing her with a smile on his lips.

Carwood claps along with everyone else and Ron stands passive beside him. Harry grins and Kitty wipes at her eyes, smiling happily. They sit back down on the deck together, Harry wrapping his arm around Kitty’s shoulder.

The party settles back down, people coming up and congratulating them. Ron slips away amongst the people and Carwood feels a little strange, standing among a group of people that he doesn't really know. He picks up a glass of lemonade, sipping at the tart liquid as he makes his way back to the deck. Dick is leaning against the rail on his elbows and Carwood stands beside him, copying his pose.

“Sometimes,” Dick says quietly, just loud enough for the two of them to hear his words, “I wish Lew and I were more like Kitty and Harry.”

“Why?”

“They’re overly happy and genuinely seem to still be interested in each other after roughly ten years of knowing each other,” Dick stares at the grass as he talks. “Lew and I - we must’ve fallen into a pattern or something. The familiarity is there and we love each other but it feels like there's something lacking. It's like we lost something or maybe I did.”

Carwood sips at his drink. “I wouldn't know what that feels like. It's been years since my last relationship.”

“Did it end badly?”

“Well, my girlfriend married my older brother so I guess that's bad,” Carwood says casually and Dick let's out a short chuckle.

Dick shakes his head, “I'm so sorry, that's not funny.”

“It's a little funny,” Carwood replies in jest

There's a clang of silver against glass again and they turn their attention to the sound. Nixon stands in the middle of the yard as he returns a beer bottle to one of the party attendees. He grins and claps his hands together.

“Well, I'm not one to copy another but now is as good a time as any,” Nixon start, smirking a little. “Before we say goodbye to the summer and send everyone home for the evening, I’d like to say a few things.” He clears his throat, lips twitching at the corners in nervousness. “When I was eighteen, I met my best friend. He came for a little town in Pennsylvania, and had scrounged up money and scholarships to attend a youth seminar about leadership at West Point, where he accidentally ran into me. Or maybe fate pushed us together. Cliche, right?  I think so. Anyway, we connected instantly and became as thick as thieves, though, we all know that Dick is too sweet to do anything naughty.” A ripple of laughter passes through the crowd of people and Carwood sees Dick swallow thickly as Nixon continues. “Somehow, we managed to run away to Chicago after college, joined the Reserves and got out after a couple of years. I married my first wife during that time. Dick had been my best man; his girlfriend, Alice, the maid of honor. Three years later, we were divorced and I moved in with Dick in a small apartment in New York, the smell of rats and sewer and the rumble of the Amtrack, kept us awake at night.

“And I promised Dick that one day, I’d get us out of that goddamn apartment and into a place that we could call our own,” Nixon stuffs his hands into his pockets as he starts to make his way to the deck. “Now we’re here in California, working for a university, in jobs that we never thought would have and we’re happy. We have a home and good friends who have encouraged us in everything that we do, and now, finally, after all these years, I’m finally ready to take the next step,” He takes Dick’s hand and Carwood smiles as the redhead is guided off the deck and on to the grass. Nixon gets down, squeezing Dick’s fingers gently as he says, “And I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Dick. Every second that I have left of it, I want to be with you. So, if you’re ready too, will you be my husband?”

Dick nods his head, “Yes.”

Nixon stands and hugs Dick, sliding the ring onto his slim, freckled finger. They kiss briefly and everyone claps in excitement. There was a popping sound and their heads turn to see Speirs holding a bottle of champagne in his hands. The top was smoking a little, but no bubbles spray out. He picks up two empty red cups, pouring a generous amount in both.

“To the happy couple,” he says as he hands them each a cup and takes a long swig from the bottle. “Best of wishes, don't fuck this one up.”

Ron weaves his way through the crowd that starts to form around Dick and Nixon. He hands Carwood the champagne bottle. “Here.”

“I don't really drink, Ron.”

“Try anyway,” He tells him.

Carwood sips the bubbly spirit and passes it back to Ron. It's sweet and pleasant on his tongue as he licks his lips. “It's good,” he smiles and Ron fixes him with his green gaze. Carwood bites his lip, “Ron?”

“Sorry,” He shifts his gaze away and sips from the bottle again.

Carwood looks down at his hands.

“Do you want to go?” Ron questions.

“Yeah.”

They tell Dick and Nixon goodbye and leave the party in Ron’s truck. Carwood stares out the open window, the wind rushing in and musing their hairs. Ron’s fingers tap against the steering wheel to the beat of the music coming in through the radio. They reach the university quickly and Ron parks his truck in its usual spot. He shuts it off.

Carwood glances over at him, catching Ron staring again. They hold the other’s gaze for a few moments before Carwood looks down, cheeks flushing.

“I’m not good at this,” Ron admits.

“Not good at what?”

“Being friends with people,” He turns to look out window, “I’m not good with feelings in general.”

“Oh.”

A heavy silence falls over them and Ron purses his lips. “You should go to your apartment. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Thank you for the ride and everything, Ron. It was nice. I’ll see you later,” He slips out of the truck and up to his apartment.

  
Carwood showers again and watches the news after making himself a cup of ginger tea because he feels nervous about the next day being his first day as a professor. He lays down and curls up on his bed, tugging the sheets over his body. He welcomes sleep readily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1963 Chevy stepside c10 pick up: [xxx](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/59/95/9f/59959f0330c621967965b8f7940ae997.jpg)  
> i made ron pretty talkative because he's in a very weird position in terms of remembering; he has flashes of memories but doesn't want to believe that they're anything more than dreams. carwood has yet to actually remember and he should be connecting the dots and realizing in the next chapter who he is and whatnot. this chapter was really supposed to set the stage for carwood and his budding relationship with ron and the others.  
> roe's chapter should follow after the next lipton based one and then we'll follow webster for a bit  
> thanks for reading!


	3. December '63 (Fall/Winter 2013)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**And I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder** _  
>  _**Spinning my head around and taking my body under** _  
>  _**Oh, what a night** _
> 
> Dinner is greasy burgers and cokes in the bed of Ron’s truck, using the bagged toilet paper as cushions for their backs. They sit and watch the sun set all the way, the truck parked to face the ocean. The sea breeze ruffles their hair and Carwood smiles as the stars appear in the sky, listening to Ron ramble quietly about the constellations and what could be seen in the October sky.
> 
> He catches Ron staring at him. Normally he’s fine with it, the gaze is lazy and uninterested but now, it's focused and calculating. “What?” He asks, biting the inside of his lip.
> 
> Ron leans forward, brushing his lips against Carwood’s. There's no pressure behind it, just a simple caress and Carwood sits frozen, in shock, of what his friend has done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title ( _December 1963 (Oh What a Night)_ ) taken from Frankie Valli and the Four Season's album, _Who Loves You_  
>  song can be found here [xxx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDxhugRKZ8g)

Carwood Lipton isn't exactly sure how he ends up in Ron’s office with papers that needed to be graded and two cups of coffee. Okay, well, maybe he does. He’s had a rough day. Too many papers and too much noise; it’s made him kind of crazy.

He props his socked feet up on the edge of the coffee table that Ron has in his office. He’s grateful for the soundproof room.

It's October 30 and the walls in Ron’s office are decorated in black and orange streamers. Halloween is Ron’s favorite holiday, followed by any other holiday where he could get drunk without people caring. But, Carwood knows that Halloween is really the only holiday where Ron can scare the shit out people and not get reprimanded for it.

Carwood sips at his coffee, flipping open his folder of essays. He knows that his students probably hate that he had them print their short stories but he liked the ability of being able to analyze their writing more critically by correcting their mistakes on paper. He taps his red pen against his palm as he reads through the first paper, making minor grammatical corrections. The rest of the essays follow in the same fashion, save a few - which were either horrendous or free errors. Carwood finds that he enjoys the way that Charles Grant and Eugene Roe write because they're descriptive and really draw the reader in with the promise of being an unreliable narrator.

He finishes his first folder and stares at the thick folder full of essays on Greek and Roman tragedies, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He really doesn't want to read them.

The door to the Ron’s office opens and Carwood glances over his shoulder as the man steps in, tossing his bag on his desk chair. “Carwood,” he greets, stepping around a pile of books on the floor and sitting down on the opposite side of the couch.

“How was your class?” Carwood asks, pushing the offending folder of essays towards Ron.

“Just lectured, as usual,” Ron opens the folder. “Still haven't graded these?”

Carwood shakes his head, “I really don't want too.”

Ron hums and asks, “You doing anything tomorrow night?”

“No.”

Ron looks away and then back at the essay in his hand. “I'll make you a deal then.”

“Oh?” Carwood sits up, taking his feet off the coffee table.

“If I help you grade these, then you have to go somewhere with me tomorrow night,” Ron says.

Carwood considers the offer. He’ll never get through the stack by himself. He sighs and concedes, “Okay. Where are we going?”

“Now that,” Ron smirks and stands, going to grab a few books off a shelf, “is a secret.”

He comes back to the couch, tossing a book Carwood’s way. “You take the Greeks, I’ll take the Romans.”

They fall into companionable silence, something that they’re both accustomed to when in the presence of each other. The flutter of papers being shifted around and the swish of book pages being turned are some of the only sounds that are heard in the quiet. Ron finishes his stack fairly quickly, dropping the graded papers in their folder and standing, stretching his arms above his head. His dress shirt rises just so and Carwood eyes the sliver of pale skin that peeks out. He pulls his gaze away when Ron cocks his head to look at him.

“How many do you have left?”

“Four,” Carwood stretches his leg out and sighs when his knee pops loudly. He bends it back under his body, propping the essays on his other thigh.

Ron swaggers around his office, unbuttoning his crisp shirt. “You doing anything for dinner?” He questions, pulling off the dress shirt to reveal a plain wife beater.

“I had planned on renting a movie and ordering Chinese,” Carwood replies, “Why?”

Ron opens his desk drawer, tugging out a blue shirt. He pulls it on over his head, “We could grab dinner together, maybe?”

“I’m not one for fancy restaurants.”

“Then we’ll get Chinese.”

“Sure,” Carwood nods and goes back to grading while Ron fixes the books on one of his four bookshelves. He finishes up fairly quickly, sliding the Greek essays into their folder and putting everything back in his satchel. He stands and stretches his arms up and out and sighs when his shoulder pop. “I’ll go drop these in my office and then we can go.”

Ron grabs his keys from his desk. “I'll go with you, cut our time down.”

They leave the office and Carwood pops into his own to drop his bag off and grab his thin sweater from the back of his chair. He smiles at Ron as they walk out of the building, their shoulders brushing. It sends shivers up his spine.

They go to a Chinese restaurant and order their food to go. Ron stands with his hands settled over his chest, studying the decor. Carwood watches his eyes shift back and forth and tries to ignore the flutter of nerves in his stomach. After they're handed a bag full of hot food, Ron drives them to his apartment. Carwood’s never been to Ron’s home before and he has to stop himself from looking around at the mess of books and ashtrays piled about the room. They eat next to each other on the couch, food cradled to their chests as they watch an older film off of Amazon. Carwood falls asleep halfway through and he wakes up in the middle of the night, two thick blankets draped around his form and a pillow under his head. He blushes to himself, feeling embarrassed. He settles into the leather of the couch and slips back into a fitful sleep.

 

* * *

  
In the morning, Carwood wakes to the smell of coffee and Ron, standing above him, holding out a bright orange mug. He sits up and takes it, sipping slowly at the hot liquid. Milk and sugar have sweetened it and he smiles appreciatively at Ron.

He blushes darkly when he realizes that he’s in Ron’s house, on Ron’s couch, where he’d spent the night. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “about last night.”

“No worries, you were tired,” Ron sits opposite him and the tv clicks on, the news filling the silence.

Carwood watches him and bites his lip, glancing down at his coffee. The tan liquid still has hints of white milk bubbled at the top and he takes a long sip, enjoying the sweet and smooth texture as he swallows. He shifts his eyes to the tv and curls further into the couch, the blankets and leather warm from sleep.

He catches Ron staring at him more than once and it causes his body to flush all over.

“What time is it?” He asks as the news changes to a documentary on frogs.

“Quarter to ten, why?”

“Shit,” Carwood hears himself say as he scrambles off the couch. “I have class.”

“So? Cancel,” Ron tells him nonchalantly, not moving from his spot on the couch.

“I can't just cancel, Ron,” He shakes his head, “not at the last minute, that's wrong.”

Ron rubs his jaw and watches Carwood hobble around his apartment in search of his shoes and sweater. He lets out an amused huff when Carwood muses his hair, which earns him a sharp glare.

“Where did you put them?” He accuses.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Ron says innocently and Carwood suddenly wants to throttle him because the man has the nerve to bat his eyes. Ron gets up and removes the coffee mugs from the table, weaving his way through stacked books to the kitchen. Carwood stands dumbfounded in the middle of the living room as Ron returns and folds himself on the couch, his green eyes trained on the tv.

“Ron,” Carwood says. “Shoes, where?”

“Just sit down,” Ron replies. “I already addressed your first class telling them you had to cancel.”

He inhales sharply and begrudgingly sits back down, arms folded over his chest. “And the others?”

“Canceled. Same as mine,” Ron mutters.

“I should still go.”

“I'll drive you home,” Ron offers, already reaching for the remote to turn off the tv.

“No, I’ll take the bus. Maybe walk. I need to clear my head.”

Ron goes to the closet and extracts Carwood’s shoes and sweater. He watches as the man slips his feet in his brown boots and rolls his sweater over his head, walking to the door.

“I'll see you tonight?” Ron asks. He almost sounds nervous.

Carwood nods and leaves Ron’s apartment. He catches the bus home to his room at Stanford and showers as soon as he can. He rinses the smell of Ron’s leather couch off his skin and scrubs until he’s pink. He drops onto his bed, towel wrapped firmly around his waist and watches the ceiling fan click as the blades move lazily. He wonders what Ron’s lips would feel against his and he turns over on his mattress. He kicks the towel off and pulls the sheets over his naked form, falling asleep in his cool apartment, the sun peeking shyly through the blinds.

 

* * *

 

 

The ring of his phone pulls him from his dreams and he answers it groggily. “Hello?”

“Lipton? It’s Ron, I’m outside your apartment.”

Oh. Right. Carwood coughs into his shoulder. “Could you give me a minute? I’ll be down soon.”

“Sure.”

The line clicks and Carwood slips from the warmth of his bed. He hangs his still damp towel up and dresses himself in light wash jeans and a downy shirt. He grabs a plain sweatshirt and manages to push his feet into old white converse as he grabs his keys and wallet. He heads down to the parking lot, Ron leaning against his red truck. He looks like a model, hands cupped around his lighter as he burns the end of a cigarette.

He puffs out a cloud of thick smoke as Carwood approaches, his shoes crunching on the small pebbles of asphalt on the ground.

“Ron,” he greets and the man hums, tugging open his car door the same moment that Carwood pulls the passenger door open. He keeps the windows rolled down as the truck turns over, rattling its way down the street and onto the highway, the sun straight ahead of them.

The radio clicks on and Ron lights another cigarette, his hand holding the steering wheel in a tight grip that makes the leather squeak in protest. Carwood props his elbow up and leans his head against his hand, the wind stinging his eyes. He closes them, the heat from the wind and the barely there brush of air conditioning makes Carwood sigh.

Ron drops his pack of smokes on the bench seat as they come to a stop light. Carwood's eyes open and he glances at Ron, the man’s green eyes focused on the road.

“Where are we going?”

“Harry’s,” He replies. “He has something for me.”

“And then?”

Ron smirks, “that's the surprise.”

Carwood's lips twitch at the corners and he turns the volume up on the radio, whistling along to David Bowie as they race down the highway.

 

* * *

 

 

Kitty opens the door with a smile, dressed in elegant black. Her usual blonde hair has been tucked away under a long black wig, her lips painted red and eyes, a smokey gray. She invites them inside and scolds Ron when he slips past her without so much as a hello.

“He’s been acting strange all day,” Carwood informs her, following Kitty into the kitchen. Trays are laid out on the countertops, filled with Halloween themed finger foods.

“Well, when doesn't he?” Kitty says.

“Fair enough.”

“Are you two staying for the party?” She asks, washing her hands quickly and drying them on a towel.

She hands Carwood a vanilla cupcake, topped with fun orange icing and little bat sprinkles. “Not that I know of,” he replies, peeling the foil paper away and taking a bite. He hums, “He seems reluctant to tell me where we’re going for the evening.”

Kitty plucks a celery stick off one of the trays, munching on it. “You two goin’ on a date?”

“It's not like that,” he shakes his head.

She purses her bright red lips, eyes narrowing as she stares Carwood down. “So you say.”

“I'm not gay.”

Kitty makes a considering noise in the back of her throat and takes Carwood’s arm, tugging him out of the kitchen. She walks him around the house, showing off all the decorations and telling him about what she and Harry plan to do with the spare bedroom after their married. The ring on her finger glistens when she talks about their marriage.

They find Harry and Ron in the den, their hands full of black garbage bags.

“What are you boys up to?” Kitty questions, kissing Harry’s cheek.

“Oh nothing, dear,” Ron answers for Harry, handing his trash bag to Carwood. He takes the other from Harry. “Bye.”

“Bye, Harry, Kitty,” Carwood nods and they smile. Ron weaves his way through the house with familiarity and Carwood trails after him. They get back to truck, dumping the bags in the bed. The truck peels away from Harry’s house and they're on the highway again, headed back to the university.

“Dinner first?” Ron asks.

“I guess. What’s in the trash bags?”

Ron taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Toilet paper,” he answers simply.

“Toilet paper?”

“For rolling houses,” he glances briefly at Carwood, blinking his eyes owlishly. “We’re going to roll Dick and Lew’s house.”

“You're joking…” Carwood whispers, rubbing a hand over his face. “You can't be serious, Ron.”

“Completely. They're the only ones I haven't done and all their neighbors know not to call the cops on us.”

“Us?”

Ron brushes a few strands of hair behind his ear and says, “This is...it's something I want to do with you.”

There's a sincerity in his voice that Carwood has never heard before and his chest constricts just so. He focuses his eyes on the horizon, the sun setting orange and red and purple.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is greasy burgers and cokes in the bed of Ron’s truck, using the bagged toilet paper as cushions for their backs. They sit and watch the sun set all the way, the truck parked to face the ocean. The sea breeze ruffles their hair and Carwood smiles as the stars appear in the sky, listening to Ron ramble quietly about the constellations and what could be seen in the October sky.

He catches Ron staring at him. Normally he’s fine with it, the gaze is lazy and uninterested but now, it's focused and calculating. “What?” He asks, biting the inside of his lip.

Ron leans forward, brushing his lips against Carwood’s. There's no pressure behind it, just a simple caress and Carwood sits frozen, in shock, of what his friend has done.

Ron pulls away and the first thing that tumbles from Carwood’s mouth is, “I’m not gay.”

“Right,” Ron musters and turns his head, face hardened.

Carwood panics. It's not that he doesn't find Ron attractive because he does, he really does, but he's bewildered that Ron of all people would want to kiss him. He's got scars on his face, more on his body. He's been to war and lived in a town not known outside of the Eastern US. He’s got calluses on his fingers, a steady aim and good direction. He has had grenades thrown at him, bullets shot and things blown up around him. Carwood isn't special, he is far from interesting. Ron though, Ron is far more cultured than he is. He grew between Europe and the States, dual citizenship in both England and America. He attended Cambridge and had good parents, money to his name. He has strong features and green eyes that were calculating, a calm demeanor and caring nature that he hides from most. He is not weak willed. Though he has never experienced the threat of death first hand, has never had grenades thrown at him, Ron carries himself with a demand for respect. He is prideful and resourceful. If he had been in the army, Carwood believes that Ron would have risen to the rank of a captain swiftly and efficiently, directing his men with ease.

Carwood would have been _proud_ to serve under him.

He touches Ron’s back and grips his shoulder. “Ron?” He says.

“It's fine. I understand.”

“I’m not gay, Ron, I…” He clears his throat and mucks up the courage to press his lips to the other man’s cheek. Ron cocks his head in his direction. “... I’m bisexual.”

“Oh,” Ron breathes, like a sigh of relief and his eyes soften and Carwood smiles in turn. The man’s hands cup his face and _oh_ \- Carwood has never noticed the calluses on his palms - they're kissing and he’s kissing back, fisting his hand in Ron’s t-shirt.

They part and Ron’s mouth presses against his jaw, fingers cupping the back of his neck. His lips drag along his skin, teeth scraping over his neck, sending shivers down Carwood’s spine. He must let out a sound because Ron draws away, licking his lips, smiling. Ron squeezes his knee gently and slips out of the bed. The sun has set, the breeze turning cool and Carwood rubs his arms, following the other man’s actions and getting out of the bed. The tailgate is pushed up and they slip inside the cab, heading back for town.

“So, are we going out then?” Carwood asks.

“I thought we have been.”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked you out on all those dates,” Ron looks over at him. “All those times that we got dinner, watched movies, those were dates, weren’t they?”

Carwood blushes, and nods, “Yeah, yeah, I guess they were.”

They reach Dick and Nixon’s house soon enough and Ron rips open a trash bag. Toilet paper falls out and he grins maniacally. He passes a few rolls to Carwood. “Have you ever done this?” He asks, gathering some in his arms.

“No, never.”

“Such a good boy,” Ron chides and drops the rolls into the grass. He unrolls some of the toilet paper. “Just a little, if it's too long, it won't work,” he instructs and then winds his arm back, flinging the at a tree. It catches and he gingerly takes the roll back up, tossing it again.

Carwood sets his own rolls next to Ron’s and starts as Ron instructed on another tree. He lobs it over expertly. _Just like throwing a grenade_ , he can't help but think to himself.

They roll Dick and Nixon’s house quickly, laughing to themselves. Carwood chuckles as Ron begins wrapping him in toilet paper, kissing him. They break apart, smiling and looking at their work. The trees are covered and even parts of the house are covered in toilet paper. Ron takes his hand, tugging him to the truck. He presses Carwood against the passenger door and kisses him again. He laughs into it, wrapping his arms around Ron’s neck. The other’s hands run down his aides, settling on his hips.

Carwood hums and turns his his head, fingers curled in the hairs at the nape of Ron’s neck. “Let's go somewhere.”

“My place or yours?”

“Your place.”

 

* * *

  
(December 2013)

Oh how Carwood hates finals week. He hated it when he was in college and he hates it as a teacher too. He shuffles his papers around with a sigh and looks up as Grant stumbles down from his seat, bag on his shoulder and test in hand.

“Here you go, sir,” Grant says, handing him his test.

“Thank you,” Carwood sets it aside and Grant rocks back on his heels.

“Have a good Christmas break, Mr. Lipton.”

“You too.”

Grant fixes the strap on his bag and heads out. Carwood looks up at the remaining students. Nearly half the class remains, including Roe, who’s got his pencil clamped between his teeth, glaring at the clock. He didn't think that he had made the test that hard.

Slowly, each student finishes before the clock runs out and Carwood wishes them all a good Christmas as they leave. He cleans up his desk, tucking his papers into his satchel. He leaves the room and goes to his office, opening the door to find Ron asleep on the black leather couch. A paper copy of _The Things they Carried_ is open on his chest, which rises and falls with each slow intake of breath. Carwood stoops down and kisses his forehead, gently taking the book from Ron’s chest and marking his place. He deposits it on top of his bookshelf and drops into his desk chair, rubbing his hands over his face. He grades the exams and updates his students final grades. They had all passed.

Ron stirs on his couch and Carwood gets up, coming to perch on the small section left on the couch next to Ron’s hips. Green eyes find his and he leans over, pressing a dry kiss to Ron’s mouth.

“How was class?” Ron asks when they part, sitting up and allowing Carwood a more comfortable seat.

“Good, everyone passed,” Carwood replies. “Are we doing anything tonight? Kitty invited us over for a Christmas party.”

“Well,” Ron starts, “I was planning on taking you home and doing something that would put me on the naughty list for years but no, not really.”

“You're ridiculous,” Carwood smiles and settles himself between Ron’s legs.

“Suppose we should bring something to Kitty’s party?”

“Wine,” he hums, “she’ll like that.”

Ron wraps his arms around Carwood’s chest and kisses his neck and shoulder. “I wonder if Buck will be there. He usually comes to town for Christmas with Winters and Nixon.”

“Who?”

“Buck Compton, played his last game as catcher for UCLA last year. He’s been working as a consultant for their baseball team, studies law,” Ron presses his nose into Carwood’s hair. “He’s blond, bulky, bisexual, like you.”

“Sounds like a dream.” Carwood turns his head, their mouths slotting together.

 

* * *

  
They arrive at Kitty and Harry’s later that day, the moon shining in the night sky. The door swung open, Harry in khaki pants and green cable knit sweater.

“Lip, Speirs! Glad you could make it!” Harry greets with a toothy grin and they step inside, Ron pressing the bottle of red into Harry’s hand. “Hey, Kitty, they brought wine!”

Carwood toes of his shoes, Ron doing the same as they shed their thin coats. They travel to the den, finding Nixon and Dick curled on the far end of the couch. A blond man sits in the armchair, talking to them. The three men look up when Ron and Carwood enter the room.

“Speirs, Lipton,” Nixon greets with a nod and a raise of his glass, eggnog sloshing around.

Dick clears his throat, “Lip, this is Buck Compton. He works down at UCLA as a sports consultant.”

The blond, Buck, stands to shake Carwood’s hand, an easy smile on his face. “Pleasure to meet you - ?.”

“Carwood Lipton, and likewise.”

Speirs drops into the love seat and tugs Carwood down after he and Buck has shook hands. He makes a soft noise and squeezes Ron’s knee gently. “Is it just us?” Ron asks Dick.

“Talbert and Grant are coming,” Dick replies after a moment. “He’ll probably be bringing Trigger. Roe’s supposed to be joining us as well.”

“Roe as in Eugene Roe?” Carwood questions. “And Charles Grant?”

“Roe doesn't have anyone to spend Christmas with, not since one of his only friend’s joined the Marines,” Nixon supplies, sipping slowly at his eggnog. “Chuck and Talbert are friends of Buck’s and Ron’s.”

“Christ…” He mumbles and settles against Ron. Buck leaves and comes back with three beers, passing two of the three to Rom. Carwood takes one from Ron and drinks it, feeling the cold liquid slosh down his throat.

Once Talbert and Grant arrive, they settle themselves on the floor between Buck and Nixon, chattering about their plans.

“Is Doc still coming?” Dick asks.

“No, he had to work tonight, said he was sorry for not being able to make it,” Talbert replies, resting his head atop Grant’s. He yawns tiredly and shuts his eyes.

Kitty and Harry come in, placing trays of food on the coffee table along with paper plates. Kitty drops onto the other side of the couch, Harry sitting by her feet after he pops a movie in. “Dig in everyone,” Kitty instructs happily and they all do, murmuring their thanks around mouthfuls of food. Kitty pours herself a glass of wine and Carwood accepts a glass as well. It's been too long since he’s had any and Ron had promised that he’d like this one. (He does).

Later in the evening, they play a game of monopoly, all of them on teams except for Buck - who plays the banker because he insists on doing so. Carwood and Ron quickly rise to the top, Dick and Nixon not far behind them. Kitty and Harry go bankrupt halfway through because they're drunk and giggling, kissing too much and making too many mistakes. Talbert dozes and eventually, he and Grant go bankrupt as well, leaving Dick and Nixon to outlast Ron and Carwood. Buck makes sly comments and Carwood can't help the heat that rises to his cheeks. He knows he’s tipsy and there's no heat behind Buck’s words, just soft teasing, and Carwood likes the feeling of Ron beside him. They force Dick and Nixon into bankruptcy and Ron kisses him on the mouth. He laughs and tells him that if he’d been paired with anyone else, he would've given up halfway through the game.

“Hell, it was all you,” Ron mumbles against his lips and Carwood lets out a choked noise, his mouth feeling like cotton, the smell of dirt and decay filling his nose.

_“You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”_

_“No sir.”_

_“Hell it was you, first sergeant.”_

“Carwood?” Ron strokes his side. His brows are knitted together.

“‘S nothing, ‘scuse me…” He untangles himself from Ron and goes to the bathroom, locking the door. He wraps his arms around himself and sinks down, closing his eyes. There's a weight on his chest. He presses his hand to his mouth, thumb brushing against his scar and a shiver runs down his spine.

_The blast from the mortar shell sends him flying back. He hits the ground and feet are stamping against the sand to get to him. He opens his eyes slowly, coming face to face with a medic. Fingers are pressing against his desert camo and he swallows hard. There's slick running down his face and he can feel wetness around his thighs._

_When he looks down, he sees the dirty olive uniform, blood soaking his pant leg and fingers rip open the fabric. He drags his gaze away and sees Talbert nod to himself._

_“You're okay Lip, everythin’s right where it should be.”_

A sob passes from his lips, muffled by his hand and he doesn't understand, doesn't know what's going on. He draws his knees up and presses his forehead to his knees, chest constricting.

_“He’s as snug as a bug,” A voice says._

_“Have a seat Webster, we’ll get you situated.” That's his own voice and a cough racks his body._

_“For Christs sake will you go back and sack out?” That's Ron, standing above him, hair long and disheveled, stubble on his cheeks. “There’s beds with fresh sheets.”_

_“I will, sir,” He apologizes to Ron. “Just trying to make myself useful, sir.”_

He’s pulled from his reverie when there's a knock on the bathroom door. “Lip?” It's Harry. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Alright. Hey, y’know, I can help.”

 _Help? How could Harry possibly help?_ Carwood wonders bitterly and stands. His legs are shaky. He unlocks the door and lets Harry inside. His curly hair is disheveled more than usual and he looks sobered up. Carwood washes his hands, pressing his still wet hands to his cheeks and his eyes. He dries them and Harry watches him.

“What did it for you?” Harry questions.

“I don't know what you mean.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “I know something happened, Lipton. I know something clicked in your head. What was it?”

“Just - Ron said something, I panicked,” Carwood leans against the counter.

“How’d you get your scar?”

“What?” Carwood looks at him, brows drawn and lips in a frown.

“How did you get your scar?”

“Tank shell burst,” he answers too fast and no, no, that's not how it happened. It was a mortar round, why did he say tank shell? What was going on?

“Good.”

“Good? How is that good? It wasn't a tank shell, it was a mortar round.”

Harry claps his arm and shakes his head. “No it wasn’t. Not really. You've sparked before, the day you got hit in Afghanistan, your memories flickered but it wasn't enough to make you remember everything. You got hit with a tank shell burst in Carentan. A French city. D-Day plus two, 1944.”

He studies Harry. There's an earnest look in his eyes and the weight on his chest hasn't disappeared, and he rubs at it, fixing his gaze on the floor. “Toccoa… That's where we met before, wasn’t it?”

“That's where I met Dick and Nixon,” Harry shrugs. “We met on the train from North Carolina to Brooklyn.”

_“Well, they musta put ‘im in charge for a reason.”_

_“Yeah, cuz the army wouldn't make a mistake like that, right Shift?”_

_Lipton turns away from Liebgott, Shifty, Cobb, and Toye, brows knitted together. He can't help but agree with them. The army had made a mistake and his name was Herbert Sobel. He doesn't say anything because he's a NCO and showing deceit would get him kicked out of the Airborne, something that he absolutely dreaded_

He blinks hard and nods, “Right.”

Harry’s hand is solid and warm on his back, grounding him to the present. “I wish Doc was here, he could help you through this more than I can. I mean - I'm supposed to be the one who’s helping you through this but I guess, I wasn’t ready. Roe - he knows already - he’s known since he was 14,” Harry explains.

Carwood inhales deeply and exhales, trying to get the weight on his chest to dissipate, “And the others? What about them?”

“Talbert’s known for a while too, Grant is like me - someone who already remembers,” Harry chews his lip. “We’re meant to help everyone settle.”

He makes a pained sound and a sudden cough rips through his body. It lasts for a while, long and loud and painful. Carwood rubs at his chest.

“You had pneumonia in Hagenau.”

“Explains the weight on my chest,” Carwood comments dryly and coughs again. Harry rubs his back.

“Yeah, it developed in Foy. That's where you and Ron got more acquainted with each other. He was the captain of Dog Company but after lieutenant Dike fell through, Dick had him transferred.”

“He ran across the field to hook up with I company and tell them our assault plan. He came running back as soon as he’d done it.”

“Must've been what sintched you two together.”

Carwood coughs, “Yeah.”

“Let's get back to the others. I’m sure Ron’s worried,” Harry suggests and leads Carwood out of the bathroom, pushing him into the love seat. He glares at him because it makes him cough and it hurts to do that.

The back door slides open and Ron strides in, dropping down next to Carwood. His hand finds his knee and he tilts his head, looking at him.

“I’m fine, Ron.”

“Hmm.”

“We should go,” Carwood strokes his hand and Ron gives a nod, stands, smoothing his hands down over his chest with a sigh.

“We’re going to go,” Ron announces and Kitty gets up, taking Ron’s elbow and dragging him to the kitchen. Carwood says their goodbyes to the others and shakes Buck’s hand again, saying that it was nice to met him. Buck returns the sentiments and wishes him and Ron a merry Christmas.

Carwood finds Ron in the foyer, a bag of gifts in his hand and Kitty giving him a gentle hug. She smiles at Carwood and kisses his cheek. “Have a good night you two, thanks for joining us.”

“Thank you for having us, Kitty. Tell Harry the same,” Carwood takes Ron’s hand.

“I will. See you,” she sing songs softly and they leave, trudging to Ron’s truck.

“You mind if we go to mine? It's closer,” Ron asks, opening the passenger door.

“Could I drive? I need to clear my head.”

Ron jingles his keys and nods, pressing them into Carwood’s hand. He kisses his lips and gets in, carefully pulling the door shut. Carwood walks slowly around the tail bed and slips into the driver’s seat, starting the truck up. He rolls down the window on his side and peels off from the side of the street, heading toward the stop sign. Ron clicks on the radio, Christmas carols filtering into the cab.

So Carwood drives, and he thinks, and he remembers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is about roe and the fifth will be about malarkey; we'll return to webster in the sixth chapter!


	4. Long, Lonely Nights (Winter 2014)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Oh, long, long and lonely nights_ **  
>  **_I guess you're never coming home_ **  
>  **_Long, long and lonely nights_ _  
> _ _Ever since you've been gone_**
> 
> He wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his arms. The clothes he’s wearing are not his own. They are army issued, torn and frayed at the sleeves. His fingers catch on the patch on his left sleeve and Eugene looks down at it. A screaming eagle, the symbol of his grand pere ’s army regiment. He's confused, as he fingers the edge of the patch that's come away from the olive fabric. The wind blows violently and he shivers hard as it bites through his clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title ( _Long, Lonely Nights_ ) taken from Frankie Valli and the Four Season's album, _Ain't That a Shame and 11 Others_  
>  song can be found here [xxx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cgrm5QGCdVw)
> 
> also, the so called "bastardized french" in this story isn't "bastardized" at all and at this point, it doesn't even matter

(Spring 1999)

Eugene Roe is six years old when his mother takes him deep into the bayou, far away from their home that sits on the edge of the green waters, the moss clinging to the supports of the porch. He sits quietly in the dingy as she rows them out, the sun slowly rising above the trees. Eugene doesn't know where they're going and he when he does ask, his mother shakes her head, refusing to answer.

Her name is Rae, short for another name that is too old for her, something that his grand _pere_ picked. Eugene was named after him. Eugene shifts in the dingy, dragging his fingers through the bayou water.

“Don’t do that, _cher_ ,” his mother chides softly as they float through the water. “Them gators gone come up and bite your fingers.”

“ _Oui maman_ ,” he pulls them out, wiping his fingers on his jeans.

She smiles so gently at him and when they reach the shallow end of the bayou, his mother slips from the boat, tying it to the closest tree. She lifts Eugene out of the dingy and sets him in her hip. He’s still small enough to do so.

Rae climbs through the marsh, the moss clinging to her bare feet. Eugene wiggles out of her grasp and walks through the moss and grass, holding her hand. They come upon a quaint little shack, the boards splintering on the side and the moss and vines clinging to the wood. There's an old rocking chair on the porch, prayer beads hanging from one of the arms. The smell of gumbo wafts through the air from an open window and Rae tugs Eugene up the steps, knocking on the door. Eugene stares up at the frame, a cross carved into it.

The rickety door swings open, revealing a squat woman with a round jaw and salt and pepper hair, tied up in a braid. She has beads hanging from her waist, a simple brown dress following her curved form. She doesn't wear shoes and her hands are wrinkled with age, freckles and sunspots dot her skin. There's bandanas and beads tied around her head and she squints her grey eyes at Eugene.

His mother squats down next to him. “Gene, meet your paw’s grandmere,” she tells him.

“ _Bon soir, cher,_ ” his grandmere greets him and he hesitantly replies in the same fashion. She chuckles and they go inside. Rae sets Eugene at the table while she helps his grandmere with the gumbo cooking on the stove. They speak in their bastardized French - too fast for Eugene to follow - and make quick glances towards him. He sees his grandmere shake her head, the beads clicking together while they argue.

_“Si vous plaît, mère, il doit apprendre le pratique.”_

_“Non, l’esprit pour tu grand-père n’aime pas.”_

Eugene’s mother makes a frustrated noise and he bites his lip, looking down at the table. There are marking carved into the wood and he traces his finger over the closest one. He feels the strangest rush come over him, a calming air surrounding him. He keeps tracing the symbol and then finds another one, a feeling of security. The third one sends a rush of love through him and he giggles because the love tickles his cheeks and warms him deep inside.

His mother and grand _mere_ ’s eyes find him and he looks up at them. “What?” Eugene asks, rubbing his finger over the sigil.

 _“Bon dieu…”_ His grandmere whispers.

“See? He needs to learn, _mere_ , he must,” Rae grips his grandmere’s hand.

Eugene slips from the table and tugs on his mother’s skirt. “Learn what, _maman_?”

“ _Le pratique de traiteur_.”

“ _Traiteur?_ ”

“ _Oui, cher_ , a healer’s magic,” his grand _mere_ lifts him up onto the countertop with a sweet smile. “I’ll teach you what your grandpereknew, and what his grandmereknew before him.” She kisses his forehead, brushing his thick black hair back.

Gene looks to his mother and she nods, patting his knee. “You will come here everyday after your school lessons but cher, don't tell anyone what you are learning. This is a very secret thing. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he nods and he turns his attention to his grandmereas she draws the sigil that had caused him to be filled with warmth on his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

(Summer 2007)

He's not sure what's covering his hands. It's red and sticky, not unlike the animal blood that would drip down his fingers when he healed them. He swallows hard and squeezes his hand into a fist. The liquid seeps between his knuckles, sticky and warm. The ground beneath him shifts and the pavement where his mother’s body lays disappears.

It's replaced with a thick sheet of white and Eugene looks up, cold biting at his cheeks and he feels so empty and so _alone_. Roe’s finger slip through his coarse black hair. He’s so confused, so lost. He doesn’t understand the white sheets beneath him. Where is he? Who is he?

He wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his arms. The clothes he’s wearing are not his own. They are army issued, torn and frayed at the sleeves. His fingers catch on the patch on his left sleeve and Eugene looks down at it. A screaming eagle, the symbol of his grand _pere_ ’s army regiment. He's confused, as he fingers the edge of the patch that's come away from the olive fabric. The wind blows violently and he shivers hard as it bites through his clothes.

The snow crunches behind him and he spins around, a man walking toward him. He’s wearing similar clothes and he stops in front of Eugene.

_“Hey, Doc, time to wake up,” the stranger tells him. He’s got a funny accent, from somewhere up north._

“What?... Doc? I ain’t no doctor.”

_The stranger laughs, “C’mon, it's time to snap out of it. The police are here. They're going to take your mother’s body.”_

“Police…?”

 _The stranger stands in front of him, his brown hair blowing away from his scalp. His jaw is square and he’s got an underbite that could never be fixed without surgery. He clasps Eugene’s bicep and squeezes. “You have to wake up, Roe. It's time for you to_ remember _.”_

He gasps out, the shock pulling his mind from its reverie and he's back in Louisiana, the heat of the summer causing beads of sweat to roll down his skin. Someone is shaking his shoulder and he looks up to see a policeman, his lips downturned in concern.

“Hey son,” he says. “I’m Officer Valerie, can you stand?”

 _Stand?_ Eugene thinks, _Wasn’t I just standing?_ He swallows and shakes his head. He doesn't trust his legs to hold his weight. Officer Valerie nods and squeezes his shoulder, getting up and walking over to one of the paramedics. Eugene brings his knees to his chest and presses his face to his kneecaps, the shallowest of sobs passing from his lips. His hands have curled themselves into fists, his mother's blood has long since dried and it cracks on his knuckles. He feels sick to his stomach.

A heavy blanket is wrapped around his shoulders and Officer Valerie sits next to him on the pavement, his hand rubbing Eugene’s back.

He breaks at that point, tears spilling down his cheeks and he sobs hard. Valerie’s hand is a constant on his back, telling him that it's okay and that it's going to be alright. He shakes his head and sobs and coughs, feeling both six years old and far older than he truly is.

He’s not sobbing over his mother's death.

He’s not crying because the woman who gave birth to him, who has loved and cherished him for fourteen years has been taken away by _le bon dieu_.

Eugene cries for all those that they left in the green hills of Europe and for the men that he couldn't save because his hands and his faith were not strong enough.

 

* * *

 

 

(Fall 2007)

He knows he looks different. He can see that his eyes are older than his face. He remembers the pain he endured and the love that he’d lost. He remembers the way he felt about people, but not their names.

He remembers the kindness of a Belgian woman, the nurse who gave her life for a war that shouldn't have ever happened.

He sees the stranger in his dreams. The man with the square jaw and underbite. He likes to laugh, a short little “ha!” interrupts Eugene’s dreams when he finds himself back in the white sheets of Bastogne. The man introduces himself as Bill Guarnere and Eugene draws a blank on the name.

Bill scuffs him on his arm and sits him down in the snow and explains to him who he is and that he can’t come see him properly just yet but promises that he will when he can.

Eugene sees others in his dreams. A fiery red head with a commanding voice, oak leaves pressed to his helmet, and another man who doesn’t smile and smokes too much. He knows neither of them, but they are a constant in the snow.

He prays to _le bon dieu_ for help in interpreting them and drinks herbal teas that help with the renewal of memory.

It takes him a long time to remember Babe. Edward. His love.

It hurts when he remembers Babe.

Eugene remembers Babe when he’s working with his grandmere, her hands clasped around his. They whisper back and forth, their French falling from their tongues. The sigils drawn in the dirt are swept away by the wind and the water in the pot between them bubbles. The memory hits Eugene hard and fast, like a bullet through his stomach and he breaks off with a wheeze. The wind dies around them and the water stops as Eugene’s hand flies to stomach. He flings himself away from his grandmereand turns toward the bayou, emptying the contents of stomach into the murky water.

He coughs and wipes his mouth, wheezing and gasping for air as he falls back onto his ass, squeezing his eyes shut, and he sees flashes red of hair and hears laughter in his ears.

_Eugene falls into the foxhole next to his redheaded friend. He puffs softly, holding his hand to his chest. Eugene takes it and examines it, asking how it happened and the redhead replies that he’d done it to him. As Eugene wraps the injured hand, the redhead chuckles._

_“Hey Gene, you called me Babe.”_

His eyes fly open and he drops his head back into the mud and moss, staring up at the sky. “Babe…” He whispers to himself and he covers his face with his hands, to hide the grin that spreads over his lips.

“Eugene, _cher_ , are you alright?” His grandmereasks and he gets up, brushing mud and moss from his body.

“Oui,” he walks over to her and takes her hands again. “Should we finish?”

“Non, that's enough for today,” she drops his hands.  “Let's go finish the gumbo; take some to your pere.”

They finish the gumbo in silence and Eugene takes half of it home. His father is asleep on the couch and he sighs, taking the quilt off the back of the couch, laying it over his father's sleeping form. Eugene eats some of the gumbo and puts the rest in the fridge. He climbs the stairs to his room and does his homework.

He tucks himself into bed and dreams of Babe, the sweet Austrian days after the war spent together on the green hills of the countryside.

It’s the first time since the summer that Eugene dreams of something other than cold snow and a wet uniform.

 

* * *

 

 

Eugene formally meets Bill during Halloween. The Philly boy winks at him from across the diner where Eugene has found himself for the night. He gives a small nod in reply and Bill swaggers over, sliding into the booth.

“Fancy meeting you here, Doc,” Bill greets.

“Likewise, Guarnere,” Eugene replies in turn.

Bill smiles and flicks his finger against a spec of dirt on the table. “You holdin up, okay?”

“Best I can.”

“You got any questions? Y’know, about the whole remembering thing?” Bill asks.

Eugene shrugs his shoulder. “Not really. Well, maybe. Just - who else remembers?”

Bill picks at the sugar packets in the little container. “No one has, ‘cept you. Congrats, you're the first one, Doc. Aside from myself, Muck, Welsh, and Grant but we don't really count.” He looks up at Eugene. “We think Liebgott might remember next. He’s been dreaming about it but it’s not certain. Toye started experiencing a lot of problems with his leg - it kind of fell through.”

“How many of us are there?”

“Most of us came back,” Bill says. “Malarkey, Randleman, Perconte, and Martin - just to name a few, they’re up in the air. They could show up but it’s pretty unlikely.”

Eugene looks down at his hands, scraping his index nail against his palm. “Why - why did we come back?”

Bill shrugs, “Muck has a theory that we’re back to rediscover our lost loves which is shit ‘cuz Welsh married his girl, and Spina and Julian are here too. Same as Janovec and Jackson. They ain’t got nobody to qualify as a lost love.”

“Maybe God wants us to live how we shoulda back then,” Eugene muses.

Bill opens his mouth to reply but a waitress comes up to their table. She's dressed like a Radio City Rockette and she smiles brightly at them.

“Sorry fellas, busy night,” She apologizes and takes out a pen and pad. “What can I get for y’all?”

“What’s good here?” Bill asks, leaning toward her.

She tucks her pen behind her ear and lists off the special and a few burger choices.

“I'll have the cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake,” Bill winks and sits back, shifting his gaze to Eugene.

“And you, _cher_?”

“The same, but with a vanilla shake.”

She scrawls their orders down and leaves with a smile, her heels clicking against the tile and skirt bouncing.

“Anyways, you were saying about God, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, either you're right about us living life as we shoulda or,” Bill points his finger at Eugene. “He just wants a good laugh.”

Eugene watches Bill’s face split into a grin and the raven haired teen laughs softly. “You're just as wild as I remember,” Eugene remarks, resting his chin on his palm. “Did you…did you know about Babe? Back then?”

“Babe? Whatdya mean?”

“We… The both of us…” He gestures with his left hand in a way that supposed to mean that they were together.

“No shit!” Bill exclaims. “No, no, I had no idea!”

Eugene hunches over, “We were… We fooled around but Babe figured trying after the war -” He breaks off and sighs, “He thought we shouldn't because it was illegal. He wasn't wrong and I agreed.”

“God, every reunion musta been hell on ya,” Bill murmurs.

“Getting to see him smile was worth it though,” Eugene stares a point past Bill’s head. “Liebgott and Webster. They were like us too.”

“Jesus,” Bill swears, shaking his head. “And to think I used to says that _I_ don’t miss nothin’.”

“Ole Gonorrhea don't miss nothin’,” Eugene quotes and Bill’s short little “ha!” follows.

“We got ourselves a wise guy,” Bill cracks.

Their waitress returns, setting down two milkshakes - chocolate for Bill, vanilla for Eugene - and their burgers, smiling as she did so. “Enjoy!” She calls as she heads back to the kitchen.

Bill grabs the ketchup and mustard, removing the top of his burger to put generous dollops of both on the bun. He spreads them together with a fry and squishes the bun back on the top. Eugene watches, a slight hint of disgust on his face.

“What?”

“You put mustard on your burger.”

“So?” Bill asks as he pours more mustard and ketchup on his plate.

“Mustard ain’t meant for burgers,” Eugene tells him.

“Y’know, you're a helluva lot more talkative than I remember, Doc,” Bill retorts, biting into his cheeseburger with a sigh of content. He chews and swallows as Eugene continues to stare at him. “The hell you use mustard for?”

“Meatloaf, meatballs, and it's usually Dijon,” Eugene says as he tosses a fry in his mouth. He grabs the salt and shakes it over them before eating another. “Can I ask you something?”

“That's why I’m here.”

“How’s Babe? Is he like how he was then?” He asks, flicking his finger against the straw in his vanilla milkshake.

Bill swallows a mouthful of burger and takes a sip of his shake. “He’s similar to your - our Babe. He really likes art. Kid takes great photos.” Bill plucks a napkin from the dispenser and wipes his fingers. “He’s… Eleven? No, ten, right now.”

“He’s ten?” Eugene questions.

“Yeah, Doc, he’s still a kid,” Bill sips at his shake. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m only fifteen.”

“And I just turned fourteen.”

“Could be worse. Babe could be six and then where would you be? I’ll tell ya where,” Bill says, pointing a fry at Eugene, “Up a creek."

Eugene prods at his cheeseburger. “Guess so.”

“Eat,” Bill tells him and they finish their meal in relative silence. Bill asks him as they're slurping down the rest of their milkshakes how Eugene remembered fully.

“It started with my mom… She died in June, car crash,” Eugene murmurs, eyes downcast. He hears Bill say ‘sorry, Doc’, but he shrugs it off. “I got her blood all over my hands and I blacked out. Found myself in Bastogne, chilled to the bone. You came into my dreams or something, telling me to wake up and when I came out of it, the police had arrived. Right before school started, I was with my grandmere, making dinner, when I fully remembered.”

“Weird,” Bill says. “I know that I came and spoke to you and shit, in the dreams and everything.”

Eugene nods. “Yeah. I don't know why remembering hurt though. I could see all these faces but I couldn't put names to them until I remembered Babe and that's when I… Realized.”

“Everything came together when Babe came around?”

“It was like a shot through the stomach and I got dizzy, fell on my ass, the memory floating in front of me, and it was suddenly so clear.”

Bill nods and they get up, walking to the register near the exit. They pay for their food and when they get outside, Bill produces a pack of cigarettes, sticking one between his lips. He offers one to Eugene who shakes his head and he shrugs, lighting his up. He takes a long drag and releases the smoke with a sigh.

“Here, let me give you my number,” Bill says when they reach the bus stop. He produces a pen and scrawls it into Eugene’s palm, the blue ink seeping into the lines of his skin. “Call, y’know, if you've got questions.”

“Thanks Bill.”

“Sure.”

The bus comes and Eugene hops on it, hunching his shoulders as he walks to the back. He drops down onto the seat as the bus lurches forward, pulling away from the curb and away from Bill.

 

* * *

 

 

(Winter 2010)

His father commits suicide the day after New Years, 9:58PM.

Eugene was with his grandmere, visiting a sick child in the hospital, practicing his inheritance.

He returns home, late in the night, the wind tickling the nape of his neck. He shivers a little and hangs his jacket, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them. He toes off his boots and pulls his socks off, stuffing them inside the wool lined leather. The house is still.

“Dad?” He calls out, flicking on the kitchen light. The crockpot is on, the smell of burnt soup sits heavy in the kitchen. He turns it off and unplugs it with a sigh. He knew he told his dad to turn off the crockpot when he got home. Eugene rounds the corner and his foot connects with something slick and wet on the floor. It's cold and he inhales sharply as he presses his hand to the wall, the light fluttering on.

The blood is splattered on the wall where the light is and Eugene’s fingers are wet with the red liquid. His foot is still glued to the floor, the pool of blood forming around it. He doesn't scream and he doesn't fall over in shock. He sees the gun lying on the floor, his father’s head blown open in the back, pieces of skull and brain matter litter the floor.

He steps back into the kitchen, picking up the phone. His mind and body work on autopilot as he dials the police. He gives them the address and what has happened. He unlocks the front door and sits down at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.

The police come and the paramedics follow. They take his father’s body, the gun, and the pieces of skull. He gives his statement and nods numbly when the police tell him that a social worker will be assigned to his case. He interrupts and informs the officer that his grandmother is still living and that she would have no problem in taking care of him. _It's just policy_ they tell him, and take him to the station because he’s a minor and his grandmere never leaves the bayou after night falls.

At the station, Eugene is sat in a cell with another teen who stares at the ceiling from the bed where he lays. He has lanky tan arms that he’s got folded behind his head, a wide jaw and startling blue green eyes. His jeans are torn at the knees, straight and tight on his lean limbs, dirtied black high tops adorn his feet. The white tank he wears has dried blood around the neck, his nose gnarled and purple.

Eugene pulls his legs up onto the stiff mattress as the door shuts. He looks down at his fingers, tipped in his father’s blood. It's dried now but it makes Eugene feel sick. He makes a noise and tries to scrape it off with his fingernails. Blood has never made him so uncomfortable.

The teen on the bed opposite, turns his head to stare at Eugene. “What you in for?”

He looks up, “Pardon?”

The teen kicks himself up and there's a glint of a chain around his neck. “What are you in for,” he asks again.

“‘M not."

“What's your name?”

“What's yours?” Eugene mutters back.

“Shelton, Merriell Shelton.”

“Eugene Roe.”

Merriell inhales sharply and sighs. “Nice name. Old name. Like mine,” he notes and stands, swinging his arms around himself. “You got a cigarette?”

Eugene shakes his head and presses his nose against his knee. He smells like swamp water and even though the smell usually makes him gag, he finds comfort in it. Merriell clasps his hands around the bars of the holding cell and shaking them loudly, yells for one of the officers to bring him a cigarette.

“Shut the fuck up, Shelton!” Someone screams and Eugene stares at the back of Merriell’s head, his dark curls clinging to tan skin.

Merriell doesn't say anything else after that. He moves back to his bed and flops down on his stomach. Eugene lays down and watched the ceiling, eyes fluttering shut as he falls into a restless sleep.

* * *

 

_They're calling his name. Yelling, screaming for him to come and help but he can't move. He can't move. He's frozen go his foxhole, his blanket pulled tight around his shaking form. He wants to sleep. He doesn't want to get out._

_There's scuffling and dirt is flying around him, catching him in the face. He blinks it out of his eyes and Spina is trying to get him out but he's shoved away by Babe._

_“Gene, c’mon, you gotta get up,” Babe yells and he nods._

_“Okay.” He starts to get up, Babe’s hand fisted in the front of his shirt. The air escapes his lungs and he falls back in his hole and Babe makes a frustrated noise._

_“Okay, get up! Not okay, lay down!” Babe pulls on his jacket and he hurtles himself out of his hole, feet pounding on the frozen dirt as he races to answer his captain’s pleas._

Eugene wakes with a choking gasp, a cold sweat on his skin. His head pounds and it's painful, the pressure right above his eyes. He turns over, the creak of the metal making him groan low in his throat. The bed across from him is empty now, the blanket folded and pillow placed carefully on the top. Eugene tugs his blanket up, trying to shrink in on himself. His stomach churns and he feels sick, so sick. The bile rises in his throat, the pounding behind his eyes grows worse and he flings himself from the bed, barely making it to the metal toilet in the corner as his stomach empties itself of what little food it has had in the past 12 hours. It’s mostly bile and it makes his eyes burn a little. He hates it.

He spits out what he can and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, flushing the toilet. The door to the cell clacks open and Eugene turns to see Officer Valerie smiling sadly at him.

“Hey Eugene,” he greets and picks up the discarded blanket, folding it neatly. “Your grandmama’s here for you. She looks uncomfortable in this place. Best go ease her mind and get her back where she’s familiar.”

“Merci,” he mumbles out and Officer Valerie sends him a questioning glance as Eugene brushes past him, hands shoved in his jacket pockets and shoulders hunched. He doesn’t realize the gait he’s adopted until halfway down the hall and he shakes his limbs loose, forcing himself to walk with his arms at his sides instead of tucked away in his pockets. He hates himself.

Eugene meets his grandmere at the front counter and lets her pull him into a tight hug. He swallows down the tears that threaten to spill and the bile that starts to come up. She leads him from the station and they walk to the bus stop in silence. They take the bus to his home and they clean up the blood, stripping the soiled planks of wood from the floor. Eugene drives to the hardware store, buys planks of treated lumber, and goes back home, nailing the new floorboards in while his grandmere makes dinner.

There’s a strange air in the house now. It makes Eugene uncomfortable and lightheaded. He smells the stench of death and rotting bodies constantly and he knows, he knows that it’s not the house that stinks so badly. It’s his mind playing tricks on him, reminding him of the diseased and malnourished bodies in that strange little work camp in Landsburg. He hates it.  

He sleeps restlessly. He tosses and turns at night and his grandmere grows worried. She watches him, half-dead to the world, jumping at every little creak and shudder that the old house makes. He’s stands stock still in the bayou, a place of refuge that has become something disturbing. Eugene works himself into a hole, unable to eat or sleep, always worrying about the stench of death that clings to his skin and to the house.

He refuses to heal people. He can’t walk into a hospital without his stomach churning. Even hearing his grandmere's soft words makes Eugene’s head spin.

He wonders how he ever made it out of Bastogne, his actions so similar to his behavior in the snow covered forests of Belgium.

He falls apart.

 

* * *

 

 

His grandmereforces him out of bed on _le jour de la Saint Valentin_ and takes him to the county hospital with her to see the child cancer patients. Eugene dresses in black jeans and a burgundy long sleeve, toeing his boots on over his socked feet. He grabs a jacket on his way out the door, starting the truck up as he waits for his grandmere. He feels uneasy about going to the hospital, hasn’t been since his father killed himself. He rubs his cold hands together. The heater in the truck had gone New Years’ Eve. Eugene was just glad that the cold of Bastogne was something he didn’t have to fear in Louisiana.

His grandmother waddles out of the house five minutes later, bundled in her thick poncho, prayer beads hanging around her fingers. Eugene peels out of the driveway once she’s situated in the safety of the cab, driving them to the hospital. He helps her exit the cab once they’ve arrived and he leads her into the hospital. She gives him a kiss on the cheek and tells him to go read to the sick children because he won’t be of any help to her while she heals.

Eugene nods dumbly and grabs a visitor pass, smearing the sticker with his name scrawled messily on it to his chest as he walks down the hall to the children’s play room. He steps inside, freezing in the doorway when he sees Merriel Shelton playing patty-cake with a little girl, her scalp covered by a bring pink bandana. Shelton fumbles as they get faster and the little girl giggles, clapping her hands and exclaiming her joy over winning Merriel for the first time ever.

Merriel smiles brightly at the girl but it quickly falls away when he notices Eugene standing in the doorway, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. “Eugene, wasn’t it?” He asks, ignoring the little girl as she boasts to her friend  about winning.

“Y-yeah,” he stutters and Merriel stands, dusting off the seat of his pants. He grabs Eugene’s sleeve and pulls him into the room, sitting him down on a stool.

“Think you can read them a book while I go get their snacks?”

He nods quickly and Merriel lays a book in his lap, _The Lorax_. He picks it up and flips it open, clearing his throat as the children form a circle around him. He starts reading, “ _At the far end of town, where the Grickle-grass grows…”_

Merriel comes back with a nurse, who carries a tray of jello cups while he carries one with juice boxes, letting Eugene take a break from reading. The children all wait patiently for their jello and juice, slurping down the sugary treats. Merriel produces two cans of Coke, handing one off to Eugene after the nurse leaves and he cracks it open with a soft smile.

It’s the first time he’s smiled in weeks.

Merriel sits down in the back with the kids as they eat and Eugene resumes the book, showing the pictures on the pages as he reads, letting the children whisper their ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ softly. He reads until the children start to look like they’re about to fall asleep, so he closes _The Lorax_ , and he and Merriel herd the children to their rooms.

Merriel and Eugene sit in the playroom after that, silence hanging heavily around their shoulders.

Eugene leaves a bit later, stalking outside to let the cold air blow on his face. He waits out there for his grandmere, cheeks turning pink as the cold bites at them. They go home and Eugene, for once, doesn’t smell the coppery scent of blood that used to hang in the air, choking him with every breath he took.

 

* * *

 

 

(Spring/Summer 2011)

Eugene graduates with the highest diploma that his high school offers. He has the highest GPA, making him the valedictorian. He gives a short speech at graduation, wishing his class a good future and good luck in their many endeavors. Eugene will attend the University of New Orleans in the fall.

He makes an unlikely friend in Merriel Shelton and they go fishing in the summer months. Merriel rants to him about various topics, even going so far as to rant about how silly it is of Eugene to run away to college in Nawlins when the community college in the Bayou is just as good. Eugene  forces Merriel to finish high school and helps him apply to the Marine Corps. They get along together well and Eugene likes the way that Merriel drawls on and on about the history of the Marine Corps. If there’s one thing that Merriel knows, it’s history.

They kiss and screw around and fuck each other. Eugene always feels bad after they have sex, guilt clouding his mind until he’s reminded of Babe’s particular fondness for girls. He doesn’t feel so bad about it after that.

Merriel leaves for bootcamp the day after Eugene starts school. He promises to write and to call and kisses Eugene hard, telling him to become to the best goddamn doctor that the state of Louisiana has ever seen.

 

* * *

 

 

(Fall/Winter 2013)

He transfers to Stanford at the end of his sophomore year and gets himself a nice scholarship that’ll pay for three-quarters of his tuition there so long as he keeps his grades up. Eugene suffers through the teaching of Norman Dike, flunking the class alongside Charles Grant, who he befriends immediately because he’s the first Toccoa man he’s seen since his encounter with Bill nearly six years ago.

Speirs lurks around every corner and Grant informs Eugene that he has yet to figure it out. Eugene learns that Grant was gifted with every officer to watch over, including Buck Compton. Winters works as his counselor, reassuring Eugene that his scholarship isn’t in jeopardy because of Dike’s incompetence and Eugene wishes with all his heart that the redheaded man could remember the difficulty that Easy had faced in Belgium when Dik had been leading the company.

Eugene bustles through his fourth year of pre-med with ease. He’d taken all of his classes as fast as he could, cramming them into summer sessions, using his AP credits to his advantage, earning himself a spot in the Nursing program. He enjoys every second of it and almost cries when he learns that Renee had been given a second chance in this new time. She remembers and they work together side-by-side, becoming a proficient and tactical force. He loves her.

 

* * *

 

(Winter 2014)

Eugene shivers, wrapping his arms tighter around his body as he makes his way back to his dorm room. The air bites at the back of his neck and he wishes he’d brought his scarf. He pushes himself into a light jog, wanting to be get back to the warmth of his room as quickly as possible. Eugene runs to the door, bag jostling on his shoulder as he runs, cheeks turning red. He slips inside and takes the stairs two-by-two because it’s faster than the elevator. Eugene reaches his floor in no time and he passes Grant in the hallway, giving him a brief nod, and the former sergeant returns it with a small smile.

He opens his door and drops his bag next to his bed after he shuts and locks his door. He tosses his keys, wallet, and phone on to his nightstand and flops onto his bed, toeing off his keds. He’s so tired.

Eugene blinks lazily at his desk, not registering the cardboard box on it. He sits up after a minute and gets up, padding over to it. His address is scrawled messily and the return address is to his home in the Bayou. Eugene sighs and reaches for his scissors, slicing the tape open. The box opens easily and he pulls out a letter, the rectangular envelope isn’t sealed so he tugs the contents out.

A picture, sandwiched between a letter written lined paper, makes Eugene grin. It’s a picture of Merriel sitting in the dirt and dust of a far off Middle Eastern country. A redhead sits beside him. They’re both grinning at the camera. Eugene can make out a cigarette between Merriel’s fingers and he thinks to himself, _Some things never change._

He flips the picture over and on the back, in neat script is _Merriel “Snafu” Shelton and Eugene “Sledgehamma” Sledge._ Eugene smiles and turns, picking a pin off a little tray next to his bulletin board, securing it to the cork with several little pins. He tucks the letter back in the envelope to read later and extracts from the box, three large boxes of Moon Pies - something he hardly comes by in California. Taped to the top box of chocolate Moon Pies is a note that reads: _Happy belated birthday, Gene, and Merry Christmas - Shelton._

  
Eugene opens the box of banana Moon Pies first and eats three before dropping into bed. He sets his alarm and turns his light off, slipping into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (some are ROUGH ONES):  
>  _le jour de la Saint Valentin_ : St. Valentine's Day  
>  _cher_ : dear  
>  _bon soir_ : good evening  
>  _maman_ : mom/mama (informal)  
>  _grandmere_ : grandmother  
>  _grandpere_ : grandfather  
>  _pour le bon Dieu_ : for the good Lord  
>  _le pratique de traiteur_ : practice of traiteurs  
>  _Si vous plaît, mère, il doit apprendre le pratique_ : please, mother, he must learn the practice  
>  _Non, l’esprit pour tu grand-père n’aime pas_ : no, your grandfather's spirit dislikes it
> 
> Moon Pies, the treat the Snafu sends Eugene at the end of this chapter, is a treat commonly found in the Southern part of the USA. They originated in the 1900s in the Kentucky coal mines as a "workingman's lunch" and now come in a variety of flavors. The chocolate ones are A+++ (in my opinion).They even sell moon pie flavored [moonshine](http://kybourbontrail.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/Moonpie-1.jpg) :0  
> [this is a double decker moon pie](http://www.candywarehouse.com/assets/item/regular/chocolate-moon-pies-128547-im1.jpg)  
> [this is a single decker moon pie](http://www.buync.com/images/MOONPIE12CHOC.jpg)
> 
> Next chapter will steer away from the "main" three - Web, Roe, and Lip. It'll be a chapter about Malarkey, originally intended to be a side-story but it has been jammed in here because why not. Chapter six will return us to Webster and an exciting return trip to Toccoa with a few unlikely guests.
> 
> A side story that involves Shifty, Skinny, Bull, Martin, and Perconte (and a few Pacific characters :0!!!) will be uploaded at a later time. Another involving Winters and Nixon is also in the works :)
> 
> I don't know when the next chapter will be out. I'm heading into finals week soon and I won't have time to write but know that it has already been started and is sitting in my drafts along with the side story involving Shifty !


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